Letting Go
by J0
Summary: Will Steve be able to let go of an old love lost in order to move on with his volatile Latina lover? Some profanity (mostly in Spanish) and mild sexual content. Spoiler for "Love Is Murder."
1. Open Mouth, Insert...Foot?

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written for fun and not for profit. Only Maggie, the events surrounding her, and Mr. and Mrs. O'Hare belong to me. All other characters belong to CBS/Viacom and the creators of Diagnosis Murder. If they decide to sue me, I will be flattered because it means they think I am good enough to pose a threat. I will also be flat broke, but hey, what's new about that? So, please, guys, don't sue me. There's nothing to gain.  
  
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This is the sequel to an as-yet unwritten story, however, I have provided sufficient details for it to make sense on its own. The unwritten story takes place a few months after the episode "Love Is Murder." This story takes place several months after that.  
  
The following summary for Love Is Murder comes from http://www.tvtome.com/DiagnosisMurder/season3.html#ep48, and is quoted without permission but with undying gratitude for the hard work and diligent research of the individual who compiled all the information for wannabe authors like me who have trouble keeping their facts straight.  
  
In Love Is Murder, "Steve heads up the investigation when a serial cop killer is on the prowl, while inadvertently [sic] dating the killer."  
  
I have tried to keep the Spanish simple enough for everyone to get it from context, but if you're stumped, or if you really want to double-check me, I suggest going to a Spanish teacher or a native speaker because most of the translation programs I've seen suck. Of course, you could always e-mail me.  
  
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Their sweat-slicked bodies slid against each other, and Steve moved faster. He felt the familiar tightening in his groin at the same moment his lover stiffened. He moaned, she screamed, and they fell off the precipice together.  
  
Several minutes later, she mustered the strength to roll over on her side and snuggle back against him. They lay spooned together, warm, and content.  
  
She sighed. "Oh, Steve. ¡Qué bonito!"  
  
"Mmmmm, Lynn."  
  
He felt her spine stiffen as she went rigid in his arms. Hastily she rolled over and moved away from him. Clinging to the edge of the bed, she said his name again, in a much different tone. Angry, demanding, confused, hurt. "Steve?"  
  
He drew his brows together in a confused frown, and finally opened his eyes to look at her. Jet black eyes stared warily out of a lovely, delicately formed, olive-skinned face.  
  
*SHIT!* His heart stopped as the curse ricocheted through his brain and shredded the blissful clouds that had formed there.  
  
"Maggie, I--"  
  
Slender fingers hushed his mouth. The very fingers that were tracing trails of fire on his skin moments ago now felt ice cold.  
  
"Don't you dare say another word!" Her voice was tight, controlled, pissed as all hell.  
  
She lay beside him for a moment panting, though clearly not from passion this time. Steve could see her nostrils flare slightly with each breath. Then she rolled off the bed, deftly taking the comforter with her even as she left the sheet still covering him. He slid over to her side of the bed and sat up, catching her wrist to keep her from leaving.  
  
"Mags--"  
  
Fire landed on his left cheek. He saw stars, heard bells, tasted blood.  
  
"¡Hijo de puta!"  
  
She grabbed her robe and slipped out the door before he realized he'd been slapped or translated the epithet.  
  
Steve sighed. She was right; he was an SOB. He'd met Margarita Sara Oviedo Hyman about three months after he'd been forced to shoot Lynn Conklin. He'd been at the bank, thinking of Lynn and regretting what had happened as he waited in line to straighten out an error on his statement when all hell had broken loose. The lovely Latina infectious disease specialist for the FBI had dived to the floor at his side and enlisted his help to stop the robbery. Then she'd proceeded to give him full credit for making the bust just to get out of doing the paperwork. She'd said she was in the process of switching jobs, and didn't want to get tangled in any loose ends at the FBI.  
  
When it was discovered that the robbery was just a small part of a larger operation, her supervisor had held her to her thirty days notice and made her investigate. Captain Collins had gotten permission for Steve to work with her on the investigation, and Steve had found they made a good team. He was still an open wound when they'd met, sad, angry, and a little afraid to trust any woman with anything; but somehow, through patience, good humor, remarkable competence, and absolute honesty, Maggie had gotten him to trust her. They'd been friends while they worked together on the case, but when it was over and she started her new job teaching interns and treating patients at Community General, Steve had decided he wanted more.  
  
At first, Maggie had been reluctant. He hadn't told her much about Lynn, but she seemed to know he had been deeply hurt. Though she didn't really believe he was over Lynn, she had allowed him to woo her, and finally, tonight had been their first, and regrettably probably their last, time together.  
  
This was supposed to have been a weeklong vacation for both of them. His dad was out of town at a conference, and they were going to spend their days at the beach house, sunning, surfing, and well…they hadn't made plans for the evenings. All through dinner, he knew, and delighted in the fact, that it had been Maggie smiling at him and giggling. When they sat in front of the fireplace and split a bottle of wine after dinner, and when they made their way to the bedroom after that, it was all Maggie. As he lost himself in his own arousal and climax, he got lost with Maggie, but as he basked in the afterglow and wandered into the edge of that blissful dream world, it had been Lynn's image hovering in his mind's eye.  
  
He was definitely an SOB.  
  
He found his boxers and pulled them on and went out to the living room to talk to her. She was stalking back and forth in front of the doors that opened onto the beach, her long, tanned legs repeatedly peeking out through the folds in her robe. Moving with catlike grace and ferocity, she reminded him of a jaguar. He knew her reflexes to be just as fast and deadly, so he kept his distance.  
  
She warned him off anyway.  
  
"Fair warning, gringo. If you don't want to be picking teeth out of your stool, you'll stay beyond arm's reach."  
  
In spite of himself, Steve felt hopeful. 'Gringo' was her pet name for him, and he couldn't believe she'd be using it if she were about to walk out of his life forever.  
  
She was smoking a cigarette. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. He'd seen her smoke once before, on the steps of the bank after the robbery. She told him then she knew it was a filthy habit and she'd nearly quit, but about once a month her nerves got the best of her and she had to have just one. She took a last deep drag and threw the butt into the fireplace. She was still exhaling smoke as she drew the pack out of her pocket and, hands trembling, lit up another. Apparently, what he had done was more upsetting than getting shot in the ass in a bank robbery on her way to a job interview.  
  
He tried to talk to her using words she'd taught him.  
  
"Querida…"  
  
She lashed out with the first thing that fell to her hands. It happened to be a baseball from his little league days. The first homerun he'd ever hit. He turned away from the missile as it hurtled toward him, and it thudded painfully off his left shoulder blade. He grunted at the impact and sighed as he heard the ricochet shatter glass and knock over only God knew what. His shoulder throbbed already. She had a hell of an arm.  
  
Steve couldn't help but be a little amused. Though she hated stereotyping with a passion, Maggie herself fulfilled almost every stereotype there was about Hispanics. She was hot tempered, loved spicy food, and had a passion for baseball. She enjoyed tequila, Corona, and sangria; and occasionally took an afternoon siesta. She played one hell of a classical guitar, and now he also knew, she was phenomenal in the bed.  
  
And she'd feed him his testicles with a spoon if she knew what was on his mind right now.  
  
He tried again.  
  
"Corazón…"  
  
This time she threw a book.  
  
"Maldito gringo. ¡No me hables!"  
  
"Huh?" His Spanish lessons hadn't gotten that far yet, but he didn't think it was good.  
  
"Don't talk to me."  
  
"Oh."  
  
He watched in silence as she paced. Finally, he could take no more. He decided to risk it.  
  
"I never made love to her."  
  
A potted plant came sailing through the air at him, scattering dirt across the living room as it went.  
  
"You just did, cabrón."  
  
Steve sighed and nodded. Yes, all right, he was a bastard too.  
  
Misinterpreting the gesture, Maggie went ballistic. She yelled some unintelligible curse at him, threw the door open, ran out onto the beach and down to the waves. At the edge of the tide, she shucked her robe and disappeared, naked, into the Pacific. Steve was several yards behind her, and she was out of sight in the dark water by the time he got there. He picked up her robe and clutched it to his chest.  
  
"Maggie!!!!"  
  
"Shut up!!!" Her voice carried back across the waves.  
  
"Maggie! Come back in! It's dangerous out there in the dark."  
  
"No! I can swim, and I'm not talking to you any more right now."  
  
"Maggie!…Maggie?…Dammit, Maggie, come back in….Maggie!"  
  
Steve stood at the water's edge for several minutes, calling out occasionally and getting no answer. He was worried sick. It really was dangerous on the water at night, and he knew there was no way he'd find her in the dark if she suddenly needed help. Finally, he went to sit on the dry sand above the high tide line, clinging miserably to her robe. He buried his face in it and inhaled her scent, spicy and exotic, a heady mixture of tropical scents, sandalwood, musk, and something distinctly Maggie. He'd been a bit surprised when she'd brought it with her tonight; neither of them had mentioned her spending the night. Still, she was a woman who knew her own mind, and he was entirely flattered when she'd taken the thing out of her beach bag and casually said, "Shall I hang this in the bedroom?"  
  
After what seemed like hours, she came walking out of the water toward him, tall, naked, and gorgeous, her wet black hair sticking to her breasts and hanging nearly to her waist. He held out the robe, and she took it. Turning away from him as she put it on, she said, "Go back and wait for me, in the bedroom. Close the door. I can't stand to look at you right now."  
  
Steve's guts went awash with acid, and, devastated by her harsh words, he did what he'd been told without a word of protest. 


	2. Tequila and Truth

Several minutes after she sent Steve away, Maggie followed him to the house, but instead of going directly to the bedroom, she went to the fridge and found the bottle of tequila she had put there a few days ago when she came out to have Steve teach her to surf. She hadn't opened it yet, knowing better than to drink before going out on the water and being too tired to start on it after her first surfing lesson. Well, now was as good a time as any to break the seal.  
  
She rooted in the cupboard and found a small glass, located the saltshaker and a sharp knife. Then she got one of the limes she had brought with her out of the fridge and cut it into quarters. She poured herself a rather large shot, tossed it back, salt, lime, a shiver as the fire rolled into her belly.  
  
She sighed. She knew she'd treated Steve rather badly, even worse than he deserved. She knew, had known all along, probably better than Steve himself did, just how much he'd loved Lynn Conklin and just how badly the woman had hurt him.  
  
Tequila, salt, lime, the fire didn't burn so bad this time.  
  
She could forgive him his slip of the tongue. Hell, a few years ago, she'd done the same thing. Her lover at the time had forgiven her, and she had blurted out his brother's name.  
  
Tequila, salt, lime. Thump the glass down, put the bottle away, suck on the last wedge of lime just because it's there.  
  
But she would be damned if she'd share him with a ghost.  
  
She made her unsteady way back to the bedroom where she found Steve, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, utterly dejected.  
  
"Get up."  
  
He stood and watched mutely as she stripped the bed. She took a pillowcase off one of the pillows and stuffed the comforter in it. Then she stripped the other pillow and the sheets, stuffed the sheets in the pillowcase, and tossed both bundles in the closet.  
  
"That stuff goes to Goodwill tomorrow."  
  
"But that's my bedding."  
  
"I'll replace it."  
  
"Oh, ok."  
  
She took him by the hand and led him out to the living room. She sat on the couch and fixed him with a hard stare.  
  
"Do you have a picture of her?"  
  
"Maggie…"  
  
"Do you have a picture of her? I want to know what she looked like."  
  
Steve nodded and walked over to the fireplace. He took a decorative box down from the mantle, opened it, and took out his only picture of Lynn. It was a rolled up 8" x 10" glossy of her lying on the floor of the beach house, a cloud of blonde hair floating around her lovely face, her lips slightly parted, eyes half open. If it weren't for the bloodstain blossoming across her belly, she could have been an angel…or a wanton woman lost in a moment of passion. He'd slipped it out of her file at work because he had suddenly realized he had no photographs of her.  
  
He smiled ruefully at Maggie and said, "I know it's morbid, but it's the only one I have."  
  
Maggie slid over on the couch and patted the cushion beside her to indicate that he should sit down. She turned toward him. Chewing lightly on the edge of one long, red-lacquered nail, she unrolled the photo, and gasped.  
  
"Oh, Steve. She was beautiful. Tell me about her."  
  
He started to protest again, but she interrupted. "Tell me about her, Steve. I really want to know."  
  
He acquiesced with a nod. "She was exciting, unusual, a little wild. She made me feel alive, and I felt like she really liked me." He bowed his head to study his hands. "She made me feel special."  
  
Maggie caressed his cheek with the back of her hand and said, "And you loved her."  
  
It wasn't a question. Steve knew that.  
  
"She was deranged, Maggie."  
  
"I know. And you loved her."  
  
"She was a killer."  
  
"Uh-huh. And you loved her."  
  
"She was a cop killer, Mags."  
  
"Yep. And you loved her."  
  
"She…"  
  
Maggie grabbed his chin and sharply forced his head up, making him gasp. She looked right through him and told him, "Ya basta. Enough, Steve. It's ok, mi amor. Just say it. You loved her."  
  
His glance darted around the room, the fireplace, a picture on the wall, out at the ocean, anywhere but at Maggie's eyes. He was short of breath and his heart was pounding in his throat. He felt shaky.  
  
"Steve." Her tone was gentle, but commanding.  
  
Looking Maggie in the eye, he finally, for the first time, admitted it. His voice the merest whisper he said, "I…loved her."  
  
There was nothing but compassion in her face and voice when she said, "And you never let yourself cry for her, did you?"  
  
Suddenly his throat and eyes burned with months of unshed tears. He tried to hold them off.  
  
"She tried to kill me," he babbled. "She'd already blinded me, and I was home by myself and she broke in and she chased me through the house. I was defenseless. I couldn't see. She took me to the bedroom and was going to make me make love to her before killing us both. I pushed her and ran to the other room and fell over a chair and found my gun and…and…and…"  
  
Slender fingers hushed him for the second time that night. Tears were finally streaming down his face. He was panting in terror at the memories and grief and guilt at the loss.  
  
"And you had to commit the unspeakable horror of killing her before she did you. And you loved her, Steve, a pesar de todo, in spite of everything. But you never let yourself grieve properly. It's ok to cry for her, cariño."  
  
"Oh, God!" It came out a half-choked sob.  
  
"It's ok, mi alma. Let it go."  
  
Great heaving sobs wracked the big man's body as he let his new lover cradle him close to her heart. He'd often thought he could have helped Lynn had he known sooner what she was doing and why, but until tonight he'd never admitted that his real regret was having loved and lost her. He wept for long minutes as Maggie's hands made large, slow circles on his back and her voice whispered comforting words, a mix of English and Spanish, in his ear. Familiar words like querido, vida mía, darling, and está bien mingled with others he did not know to make one thing absolutely clear. This remarkable woman understood his pain and loss, she accepted it, and she was willing to wait for him to deal with it. Even in his misery, he was able to thank God for her.  
  
Gradually, the bone-jarring sobs gave way to quiet weeping that eventually subsided into sniffles. Ever so gently, Maggie eased him down on the couch, slipped a pillow under his head, placed the picture of Lynn in his hands, and covered him with an afghan. She ran a hand through his hair and placed a kiss at his temple. As she moved away, he reached for her hand.  
  
"Maggie?"  
  
He looked up at her, and she placed a kiss on the tip of her index finger and reached down to put it on his forehead.  
  
"No te preocupes, baby. Don't worry. I'll call you tomorrow, after lunch. For now, just rest, you haven't lost me."  
  
He heard her moving around his apartment a little more as he drifted off to sleep. He fought to stay awake, but he was emotionally spent, and soon gave up the battle, trusting the sincerity he'd heard in her words.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Maggie had known Steve needed desperately to grieve for his former love, but even so, she had been unprepared for the force of his emotion. Now she was jealous of Lynn Conklin and the hold the dead woman had on his heart, and she hated her for what she had done to Steve. She wanted to jump Steve's bones, now, and ride him until his universe narrowed to him, her and their joining, anything to make him forget the blonde bitch that had shattered him. But she knew Steve wasn't ready for that yet. So, she had to get out of the house before her hormones and her jealousy got the best of her judgment.  
  
First, she had some things to take care of.  
  
She went back the hall to the linen closet and found clean sheets. She'd seen an old blanket on the shelf in the bedroom closet. In Steve's room, she turned the mattress and made up the bed. She got her perfume out of her overnight bag and sprayed a tiny bit of it on the freshly made bed. Then she found a piece of white paper in the desk drawer, sketched a quick, but recognizable self-portrait, wrote a caption, and placed it on one of the pillows. She got dressed, checked on Steve, who was sleeping soundly on the couch, grabbed the linens she had stripped from the bed earlier, and quietly let herself out.  
  
She needed to get home and get some rest. She had some research and shopping to do before she called Steve tomorrow. 


	3. Cleaning Up

Steve woke up around ten. At first, he was confused about why he had fallen asleep on the couch, but when he sat up and the photo of Lynn Conklin fell to his feet, the events of last night came back to him with a sickening immediacy. He scratched, stretched, yawned, and headed for the shower.  
  
As he passed through the bedroom, he smiled to realize it still smelled like Maggie. He was surprised to see the bed had been freshly made, and on one of the pillows was a delightfully sexy caricature of her. Waves of dark hair surrounded her face, and the almond-shaped obsidian eyes sparkled with mischief and something more. Her full lips were turned up in a sexy little grin that pushed the high cheekbones higher still and made the corners of her eyes crinkle. The aquiline nose was accentuated just a bit, not to make it overlarge, but enough to bring it in to proper proportion with the other exaggerated features of the caricature.  
  
The caption said, "Imagine having the real thing here. When you're ready."  
  
Steve sighed with relief. He always knew where he stood with Maggie. The self-portrait was her way of letting him know she forgave him and that she was willing to wait for him to work his problems out. He was genuinely grateful to her.  
  
He took a quick shower, shaved, brushed his teeth, and chuckled when he opened the closet to get fresh clothes and found the offending bed linens from last night were gone. Mags definitely did not waste time once she'd made up her mind. He wouldn't be surprised if she showed up today with the replacement bedding she'd promised him.  
  
He headed out to his kitchen to fix some breakfast and frowned when he saw the remains of Maggie's angry indulgence. A dirty knife, an empty glass, the saltshaker, and four sucked-dry lime wedges sat out on the counter. He found the open tequila bottle in the fridge and guessed that she'd had four, maybe five shots. Was it before she went swimming or before she drove home? Both possibilities made him shiver. He didn't remember smelling the liquor on her breath, but then, so much happened last night he might not have noticed. Still, he shouldn't have let her swim or drive with that much booze in her. Then again, he hadn't yet once been successful in stopping her from something she set her mind to.  
  
He cleaned up the counter, fixed himself some sausage and eggs for breakfast, and set about cleaning up the mess in the living room. He folded the afghan and put it back over the arm of the couch. The book she'd thrown went back on the shelf, and he eventually located the baseball under a chair. He briefly considered throwing Lynn's picture away, but, not being strong enough to slay that dragon just yet, he rolled it up and put it back in the box on the mantle. He discovered that the wineglasses they had used last night were the unfortunate victims of the ricocheting baseball. He got the broom and dustpan and swept up their remains and took them straight out to the trash. The Christmas cactus she'd thrown at him was in a sorry state. Many of the leaves had broken off, and most of the dirt was gone. He thought he'd seen some potting soil out in the garage, and made up his mind to try and save it. Maggie would probably tear into him again if he didn't.  
  
As he vacuumed the rug, he decided she had been remarkably restrained last night. He'd seen her Latina temper in action before and knew he was lucky to have only one bruise, no broken bones, and all of his teeth. At nearly six feet tall, she was a large woman, not merely statuesque, but gracefully big, and her supermodel good looks belied her FBI training. She was self- conscious about her size and strength, of course, but Steve had told her more than once that it was one of the sexiest things about her. Steve knew few men who would be a match for Maggie in full flight, and he had been tremendously turned on the first time he considered having a lover he didn't have to treat like a china doll. He gave a wry smile, thankful that she had exercised so much self-control last night. He could just imagine himself in the ER explaining to Jesse that Maggie had beaten him within an inch of his life for saying the wrong name in bed.  
  
The smile ran away from his face.  
  
He shrugged, sighed, and went out to the garage for the potting soil. It was getting on toward noon, now, and while Mags had said she'd call him after lunch, he knew that could mean three or four o'clock. She'd once explained to him the Latino concept of time, and since then he'd learned not to be so frustrated waiting on her when he arrived for a date on time and she was just starting to get dressed. "The dictionary might tell you mañana, means tomorrow, gringo, but it really means, 'when I get to it,' and everything else in life kind of falls into step with that." He found it a strange contrast to the no-nonsense attitude she always took once she committed herself to a course of action.  
  
Coming back through the living room, he collected the Christmas cactus, an old newspaper, and an old serving spoon from the kitchen, and carried the items out to his patio where he could work in the shade of his dad's deck. He spread out the newspaper and set the rest of the items on it. Using the handle of the spoon, he carefully worked up the soil around the roots of the plant and when the roots were free, lifted it from the dirt. Then he emptied the pot, thinking now would be a good time to freshen the soil around the plant. He filled the pot with soil, tucked the roots into their new home being careful to center the plant, and then slipped the broken-off segments of the plant into the soil as well, hoping they might take root.  
  
He balled the old dirt up in the newspaper and deposited it in the garbage, took the bag of potting soil out to the garage again, put the spoon in the dishwasher, and watered the repotted Christmas cactus. He had milked the chore for almost an hour, and it was now a quarter to one. Just as he was casting about for something else to kill the time while he waited for Maggie's call, the phone rang.  
  
He took a deep breath and swallowed hard as he reached for the phone.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hola, guapo! Did you sleep well?"  
  
He smiled; she seemed cheerful today.  
  
"Yeah, I actually did. Did you?"  
  
"Like the dead, mi amor," an awkward pause, then, "Escucha, corazón, listen, babe…"  
  
She often translated for him as she went. He found it endearing, like she was making an effort to include him in her world and her thoughts rather than simply keeping them to herself as if he wouldn't understand.  
  
"…I'm sorry for going loca on you last night."  
  
"It's all right, Mags."  
  
"No, vida mía, it's not. It's…what's the word? Unexcuseful."  
  
"Inex…"  
  
"Sí. Claro. Inexcusable. Lo siento mucho."  
  
He knew she'd get angry if he tried again to tell her it was ok, so he did the next best thing. "No importa más." It doesn't matter anymore. "Apology accepted."  
  
"Hey," she said brightly, "that's some pretty good Spanish for a gringo. You've been practicing."  
  
He teased back. "Yeah, there's this Latina chick I'm trying to impress. Do you think it'll work?"  
  
"Works for me, querido." Another pause. "I, uh, I've made some plans for us…if you're up to it?"  
  
"What do you have in mind?" He deliberately lowered his voice to a sexy purr to see what would happen.  
  
"Not that…"  
  
"Oh." He couldn't hide his disappointment.  
  
"…yet."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Pack a bag for three days. The weather should be warm, but the nights might get chilly, and they're expecting rain. Call your papi so he doesn't worry if he tries to contact you, and get Jess or Amanda to check the mail. You won't need your swim trunks or any special gear, just comfortable clothes, a jacket and maybe some good walking shoes. I'll pick you up around three."  
  
"I'll be waiting. "  
  
"I know you will. Te quiero. Adiós."  
  
She hung up before he could ask where they were going or what she had planned. He knew she probably wouldn't answer if he called back, so he followed her instructions and started to pack. This could be a very interesting trip. 


	4. A Late Start

Steve had been ready to go at quarter to three. He'd been pacing since quarter after. Jess was going to check the mail and look after the place while he was gone, and Amanda had told him she knew where Maggie was taking him but had been sworn to secrecy unless there was an emergency. He'd called his dad and explained his plans, and true to form, Mark heard something in his voice that said all was not well.  
  
"Want to talk about it, son?"  
  
"What, Dad?"  
  
"Whatever's bothering you."  
  
Steve sighed, thought for a minute, and decided he could tell his dad at least part of what was on his mind.  
  
"She's the first one since…Lynn."  
  
Mark heard the catch in his voice.  
  
"And you're nervous?"  
  
"Not nervous exactly…Uneasy?" There was no way he could explain to his dad what had happened last night.  
  
He could hear the smile in his dad's voice when he responded.  
  
"Son, Maggie is a good woman and you can trust her, but don't go borrowing trouble by looking for more than you're ready to handle. You two have been friends for a few months now. Just consider this an extended outing with a good friend, and if something more happens, great. If it doesn't, well, you weren't expecting it anyway, right?"  
  
Steve smiled back into the phone when he answered. "Right, Dad, and thanks."  
  
"Any time, son." There was a pause, then softly, "You know I love you, Steve."  
  
"Yeah. Love you, too, Dad."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Maggie pulled up at five past four. When Steve made a show of checking his watch and shaking it to see that it was working, she laughed and told him, "Sí, ya lo sé. Yes, I know. I know. I'm late."  
  
She was carrying a large shopping bag and a small foam picnic cooler. Handing Steve the cooler, she said, "Why don't you pack us some sandwiches and soda so we don't have to stop for dinner while I make the bed."  
  
"But Mags, I never slept in it last night. You don't need to make it."  
  
"Yes, I do. Next time you sleep on it, I want you sleeping on *my* sheets." She gave him an absolutely feral grin and said, "Now get busy with those sandwiches."  
  
He had to do what she said; he couldn't resist her. When he finished, he went into the bedroom to find her folding the bedding she had stripped off. The bed was already made up in shades of blue, green, turquoise, red, and yellow with a pre-Columbian pattern on the borders and a large circular motif in the center of the comforter. The colors were bold and vibrant and should have clashed hideously, but strangely, somehow, they worked.  
  
"Nice," he said, "Maya?"  
  
Maggie shook her head, "Aztec. My people, warriors all."  
  
"Ohhhh, yeah."  
  
She laughed, "Like you know the difference."  
  
Steve used his best scholarly voice as he recited, pleased to surprise her that he actually did know.  
  
"Mayan Civilization lasted for a period of about 3500 years from 2000 BC to 1500 AD with the Classical Period dating from about 250 AD to about 900 AD. They lived mostly in southeastern Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, El Salvador, and parts of western Honduras and Nicaragua. They were talented builders and astronomers, constructing huge public monuments and developing a 365- day calendar that was more accurate than any except the one we currently use. Some of the best known Maya archaeological sites include Chichén Itzá, Palenque, Tikal, and Copán."  
  
He grinned as he saw Maggie's eyebrows shoot up. He watched them climb even higher as he continued elucidating.  
  
"The Aztecs left Atzlán in Northwestern Mexico about 700 years ago and eventually settled in central Mexico when their leader, Tenoch had a vision in which Huitzilopochtli, or Hummingbird on the Left, the god of the sun and of war, told him to establish a city where they found an eagle, perched on a cactus, eating a snake--the image which now appears on the flag of modern Mexico. Around 1325 they built the city of Tenochtitlán on Lake Texcoco, the site of the modern capital of Mexico City. Tenochtitlán was one of the most populous cities in the world at that time, with large temples, broad avenues, water gardens, and a ball stadium where they played a game that was like a cross between soccer and basketball in which one team was sacrificed to the gods. There is some debate about which team was sacrificed, but I think they sacrificed the winners. I wouldn't want to incur the wrath of the gods by offering them less than the best, and I don't think the Aztecs would either. They managed all of their achievements without the benefit of a phonetic alphabet or metal tools."  
  
Maggie applauded. "I am impressed, gringo. How'd you know all that?"  
  
Steve shrugged. "I do some reading." He wouldn't admit on pain of death that he'd sought out and memorized the information because he wanted to know more about her interests. He'd also read up on the Incas of Peru, the Pueblo, the Anasazi, and some of the other tribes of the southwestern U.S., but he didn't think now was the time to expound on that.  
  
She pointed to the motif on the bedspread. "So, do you know what this is?"  
  
"The Sunstone. It's a lunar calendar. Not terribly accurate, but it has some religious significance, I think."  
  
She nodded. "Very good. Do you know how to read it?"  
  
"Afraid not."  
  
She briefly summarized pointing to each feature as she described it. "The face in the center is Tonatiuh, the face of the sun. He hangs in space by his claws. The four rectangles around him are the four ages of the world. The ring of small rectangles represents the twenty days of each month, and the four wedges are the sun's rays. This series of symbols means 'precious'; the rectangle at the top is the dedication date, and figures circling the edge are both Xiucoatl, the Fire Serpent. So, do you think you'll be able to sleep with all of that going on on top of you every night?"  
  
He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and said, "As a matter of fact, I'd like to have a lot more than just that going on on top of me every now and then."  
  
She gave him a frustrated sigh and muttered, "Maldito horny gringo."  
  
He dropped a wet kiss on the back of her neck and said, "Sí, señorita," but when he put his arms around her waist, he got elbowed in the ribs.  
  
"Ooof!"  
  
Looking at her watch, Maggie said, "Ay! Corazón, it's getting late. We need to go."  
  
Steve thought it wise not to point out that *he* was ready on time. It was just after five when they hopped in Maggie's lemon yellow Mustang convertible and headed north on the Pacific Coast Highway. 


	5. Spanish Lesson

After some flirting and teasing in the car, they had settled into a companionable silence for about ten minutes before Steve asked, "So, Mags, where we going?"  
  
She cut him a sideways glance and said, "It's a surprise."  
  
"Una sorpresa, right?"  
  
"Very good!" She praised him, "You've been studying."  
  
He smiled, "I have a good teacher."  
  
That was all the prompting she needed. For the next two and a half hours, she helped Steve practice his Spanish. They worked with direction and location words, descriptive words, parts of the car, and friendly banter. Suddenly, Steve's stomach growled.  
  
Maggie laughed aloud.  
  
"Tu estómago gruñe como un jaguar. ¿Tienes hambre?"  
  
Steve, screwed up his face, thought hard, and eventually shook his head. "No comprendo. I don't get it."  
  
She laughed again, shifted her grip on the steering wheel, and reached over to pat his stomach.  
  
"Tu estómago…"  
  
"My stomach?"  
  
She nodded, "Sí, tu estómago gruñe." She gave an eerily realistic growl.  
  
"My stomach's growling!"  
  
"Cómo un jaguar."  
  
Steve closed his eyes and repeated her words several times. "Like a jaguar! Yes!"  
  
"Muy bien, mi amor. Now, ¿Tienes hambre?"  
  
Steve tried, he really did, but he wasn't making the connection.  
  
"I give up."  
  
"No, escucha," she commanded, pointing to her ear with her right hand indicating that she wanted him to listen carefully.  
  
"Maggie…"  
  
"¡Escucha!"  
  
She always pushed him to work just a little harder than he really wanted. It frustrated him no end, but he loved her for it.  
  
"Ok, escucho. I'm listening."  
  
Speaking slowly and patting his stomach again, she repeated, " Tu estómago gruñe como un jaguar." Then she pointed to her ear to show that this was the part where he really needed to listen. "¿Tienes hambre?" As she spoke, she moved her hand out from her ear and up in the air, and finally he caught the rising intonation of a question.  
  
He muttered excitedly to himself as she repeated the question. "My stomach's growling…¿Tienes hambre?…Am I hungry? Yes! Yes!" he shouted triumphantly. "Yes! I'm hungry."  
  
"En español," she commanded.  
  
"Ok, ok." He bounced excitedly in his seat, closed his eyes, muttered some more, and waved his hands in the air before him trying to shape his words. "¿Tienes hambre? …Am I hungry?…¡Sí! ¡YO TENGO HAMBRE!" Flushed with success, he pumped his fist in the air with each word.  
  
"Excelente, mi amor. I knew you'd get it! There's a scenic overlook just ahead, we'll pull over there and have a picnic."  
  
Suddenly Steve felt embarrassed, like an overeager teacher's pet, and he quickly calmed himself. "Oh, uh, ok, sounds good."  
  
Maggie caught his shift in mood.  
  
"Steve, ¿Qué tienes? What's wrong?"  
  
He just shrugged, and when she continued to wait expectantly for a response, he realized she hadn't seen the gesture. "Oh, nothing," he finally said, trying to sound casual.  
  
"No me mientas. Don't lie to me."  
  
He sighed and tried to explain. "You switch so easily from English to Spanish and back again, it's like you think and live in two worlds at once, and here I am, like a slow child, struggling to understand the simplest of questions and form a response. I feel stupid, and I'm sorry I'm so frustrating to you."  
  
They had just pulled in to the overlook and she slammed on the brakes so hard Steve lurched forward into his seatbelt. Amidst the rising dust and spitting gravel, he heard her mutter. "Hijo de puta. ¿Estúpido? Frustración, my ass."  
  
She unfastened her seatbelt and turned to look at him with such intensity Steve wanted to turn away. She prevented him from doing just that by caressing the side of his face and gently grasping his ear. He squirmed uneasily, but held her gaze.  
  
"You are *not* estúpido, you got that? You are *not* stupid."  
  
He could always tell when she was angry, upset, or excited because her accent was a little more obvious. Instead of 'you,' she kept saying 'joo.'  
  
"And you have nothing to be sorry for. Learning a new language is a *very* difficult thing to do, and I…" Steve recognized the characteristic waving of a hand that indicated she was searching for a word. "…adore you for trying."  
  
"You mean admire," he whispered.  
  
"No, I do *not* mean admire, even though that is true, too. I know the difference. I said 'adore' because I meant 'adore'."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah, oh." She sighed, let go of his ear, and took hold of his hand instead. "Querido, I know it's not always easy, but I hope it is usually fun?"  
  
He recognized the intonation as a question and nodded.  
  
"Good. Don't judge yourself by me, corazón. I grew up speaking both languages, and I still lose me sometimes. The fact that you try so hard shows me that you really…care for me…about my feelings."  
  
Steve smiled. Maybe it was deliberate; maybe it was a legitimate slip. Either way, it was cute.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Lose myself."  
  
"Huh? Oh. Anyway, I love teaching you, and I can't tell you how much it means to me that you want to learn."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes. You talked about me living in two worlds at once, sí?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Well, that's exactly what I do, and it's hard to stop it. Tú eres el primero…You're the first one…the first I've known who wanted to find a way into *both* of my worlds instead of wanting to…restrict? …limit? …me to his. Everyone else has always wanted me to be less than what I am just so they didn't have to work to understand me. It's like being asked to be just half a person. You accept all of me, Steve, and that's how I know you care."  
  
"You mean it?"  
  
"Absolutamente!"  
  
"I do, you know? Care about you."  
  
"Sí." There was a long pause, then, "Steve?"  
  
"¿Qué?"  
  
Shyly, she said, "And thank you for never, ever, saying, 'Speak English, woman.' I can't tell you how many times I've heard that and hated it."  
  
"I've never felt the need to say it. You always make sure I understand exactly what you're saying."  
  
Steve's stomach growled again and they both laughed.  
  
"There's no confusion there, either, huh, gringo?"  
  
Chatting, flirting, and continuing to practice Spanish, they enjoyed their sunset picnic on the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. As the water below them turned blood red in the setting sun, Steve had a thought.  
  
"Mags, I thought the point of packing the sandwiches was to avoid having to stop for dinner."  
  
"So, I changed my mind. Got a problem with that?" She wasn't about to tell them that she wanted to arrive at their destination after dark, preferably with him sound asleep. She didn't want him to know what she was up to until morning. Hopefully, then it would be too late for him to back out.  
  
"Not really, as long as we get where we're going on time."  
  
"Mi alma, we still have six days, right? If we need a little more time than what I had planned, you can call Jess to get the mail and I can call Héctor to feed César, no?" She pronounced her husky's name 'SAY sar' with a Spanish accent.  
  
He grinned, "Sí, as long as we're not on the road too late. I don't want you to have to drive all night to keep a reservation."  
  
She gave him a peck on the cheek. "Got it covered, querido."  
  
They cleaned up their litter, deposited it in a nearby trashcan, and continued north along the PCH. After about half an hour, the hum of the Mustang's engine, the mental effort of improving his Spanish, and a full stomach conspired to make Steve groggy. Maggie glanced over at him as an enormous yawn nearly split his head in two. Tired tears had formed at the corners of his eyes, and he was fighting to stay awake.  
  
"Oye, guapo. Listen handsome, we'll be there in another couple hours. You probably didn't sleep as good as you thought you did on the couch last night. Why don't you catch some sleep now? I'll wake you when we get there."  
  
"Well, Maggie, I didn't sleep as well as I thought I did."  
  
"Damn, I hate them…*those* words. Will I ever learn? Anyway, corazón, get some rest."  
  
"You sure? I hate to nod off and let you do all the driving alone. It doesn't seem quite fair."  
  
"Descansa, amor. Get some rest. I'm not tired at all, and you're good company even when you're sound asleep."  
  
"Flatterer."  
  
"Claro."  
  
He snuggled down in the seat as well as a man of his size could and shut his eyes. After a moment, he popped them open again, looked up, and said, "Maggie?"  
  
"¿Qué?"  
  
"I…I do care about you…a lot."  
  
"Lo sé. I know."  
  
Slowly, Steve's breathing grew deep and even. When she glanced over, and saw his face relaxed in a mask of sleep, she finally allowed herself a sigh of relief. The next day or so would not be fun for her and her big blonde gringo, but she knew in her heart it was what Steve needed. She was glad to see him getting some rest. He was going to need it.  
  
"Love you too, gringo." 


	6. Yellow Mums

When they arrived in Santa Mera, Maggie woke Steve gently by nibbling at his ear. He mumbled and moaned a bit at first, cracked first one eye then the other. When he was fully focused, she favored him with a brilliant smile and said, "We're here!"  
  
"Where's here?"  
  
"A little B&B I found the other day on the internet." That much was true. The rest could wait until morning. "I got us a suite, two rooms with an adjoining bath."  
  
"Oh."  
  
She could hear the disappointment in his tone.  
  
"Relax, querido. I'm not pissed anymore. I just wasn't sure how you'd feel about it. You get settled in your room, I'll do the same in mine, and we'll leave both bathroom doors unlocked for…whatever reason."  
  
"I guess that will be ok," he conceded.  
  
  
  
  
  
The next morning, Steve awoke slowly. It took a moment to recall where he was and how he got there, but once he remembered, he smiled. He could hear Maggie in the shower, singing something in Spanish. He had considered joining her for a moment last night, but then decided that after his previous blunder, he should wait for her to make the first move. She'd said she'd forgiven him, and she probably had, but that didn't mean she was over it. The last thing he wanted was for the memory of that fiasco to come back in her head while she was in bed with him.  
  
He heard the water cut off and the sound of singing stopped. He heard her brush her teeth and gargle, and then he heard her door open and close behind her. A moment later, the phone in his room rang.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Hola, querido. I missed you last night."  
  
He smiled into the phone and said, "I was thinking maybe we should slow down a little. I was afraid you might still be a little pissed off, so I stayed away."  
  
"Ah, sí, te entiendo. I understand." Sarcastically, she continued, "You're probably right. I'm not really mad, but we Latinas are very vindictive."  
  
Steve sighed and said, "I didn't mean it that way. I just didn't want to press the issue."  
  
"Bueno, ok, whatever. Why don't you get cleaned up? I had plans for the day."  
  
"Ok. Care to fill me in?"  
  
"Ahora, no. Not right now. Let's have breakfast and we'll go for a drive."  
  
"I'm dying with suspense."  
  
When she answered, her voice sounded serious, and he thought he heard a tremor in it. "Not now, Steve. Just take your shower and meet me downstairs for breakfast."  
  
For some reason, her tone gave him an uneasy feeling.  
  
  
  
  
  
At breakfast, Steve felt the same chill he had merely heard over the phone earlier. Maggie barely spoke two words to him the entire time. What she said notwithstanding, she must still be pissed. She was seldom so subdued.  
  
As he finished his breakfast, she forced a bright smile and asked, "You ready to go for a ride, gringo?"  
  
"Sure. Where to?"  
  
"You'll find out soon."  
  
As they left the B&B, she tossed him the keys to her mustang and asked him to start the engine. She headed across the street and bought a bouquet of flowers from a little florist shop she'd noticed last night when she pulled in. She figured Steve might be glad he had them when they got where they were going.  
  
Maggie shuddered as she waited for her change from the florist. She knew she was taking a big risk with Steve, but she couldn't think of any other way. He'd never had the chance to say goodbye to Lynn, and he'd never be able to let her go until he did. Maggie knew he'd never be able to move on with her or any other woman until he put the whole tragedy behind him.  
  
Since she couldn't ask Steve, she'd had to dig for information, Maggie grimaced at the accidental pun, to find out where Lynn was from and what her real name was, but once she'd stumbled across the name O'Hare and the town of Santa Mera, it was easy to find the cemetery where she was buried. Madre de Dios, she hoped Steve would understand why she'd brought him here. She didn't want to hurt him, and she felt guilty for letting him think this was a pleasure trip, but she knew there was no other way to help him heal the wound in his heart.  
  
When she returned to the car, Steve had the engine running, and he was waiting in the passenger seat. He smiled and said, "If you wanted some flowers I could have bought them."  
  
Then she saw him frown.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve felt a chill when Maggie returned from the florist. She'd bought a bouquet of yellow mums. He clearly remembered giving her flowers on their first date. She'd gone pale and looked utterly horrified.  
  
"How dare you? That's not even close to funny," she'd hissed.  
  
"I'm not trying to be funny," he'd said, confused.  
  
"Steve, I know I told you. How could you forget?"  
  
"Forget?"  
  
"Yellow flowers are for the dead."  
  
Steve had been mortified. Of course, she had told him when she was in the hospital recovering from injuries she'd received during their investigation. She'd been badly beaten and buried alive in a cemetery. He hadn't really forgotten about the flowers. The yellow carnations had just looked so pretty and so delicate. Each petal was edged in a pink so brilliant it was almost neon, and he just had to buy them for Maggie. The thing about yellow being for the dead just hadn't entered his mind. He'd apologized profusely, and they'd smoothed it over soon enough.  
  
Now she was buying yellow mums. She'd told him about the Day of the Dead, and the tradition of the marigolds and chrysanthemums. He had a very bad feeling.  
  
"Maggie, where are we going?"  
  
"Just for a drive, mi vida. Why do you ask?"  
  
"The flowers. Why are we going to a cemetery?"  
  
She took a deep breath and answered carefully.  
  
"I know this seems weird, but could you just go along with me for a little while. I promise you'll understand by the time we come back to the hotel."  
  
Steve was uneasy, but he agreed because he trusted her. Maggie was seldom so serious, and she had her own way of doing things. He could go along with it for now. 


	7. Talking to a Headstone

Maggie breathed a sigh of relief when Steve agreed to accept what she was doing. At least the cemetery wouldn't be a surprise when they got there. On the way into town, she'd kept a close watch on road signs in the rearview mirror, and she hadn't noticed any that would identify Santa Mera. She was certain that if Steve had known where he was, he would have made her drive back to LA that night. She just hoped she could get him where she wanted him before he found her out.  
  
They arrived at Holy Mount Cemetery about half an hour later and parked near the caretaker's shack. Maggie apparently knew where she was going, because she took the flowers, looped her arm through Steve's, and led him down one of the paths.  
  
"The weather suits the mood," she said, looking up at the gray sky. "It even smells like rain."  
  
Steve had to agree, everything did look melancholy.  
  
"Are you ok," he asked.  
  
She nodded, and, as she spotted the headstone she was looking for, told him, "Actually, Steve, we're not here for me. We're here for you."  
  
He followed her gaze and read the reddish, heart-shaped, headstone: Lynn Anne O'Hare. Beloved daughter. May 17, 1963-January 19, 1996. There was an angel etched in each curve of the heart, and the two of them appeared to be watching over her grave.  
  
Suddenly, he was furious…and terrified.  
  
"God, Maggie! No. What the hell were you thinking?"  
  
He tore her hand from his arm and started to run back to the car. His guts were awash in acid, and a knot was slowly working its way up from his stomach and into his chest, making it hard to breathe. Tears stung his eyes, and he had to slow down, because he couldn't clearly see where he was going. That's when Maggie caught up with him.  
  
He felt her gentle touch on his arm, and he turned on her.  
  
"What kind of a cruel, sick joke is this," he sobbed. "How could you do this to me Maggie? How *could* you?"  
  
She would not be deterred. She stepped close to him and gathered him in her arms. "Escúchame, corazón…"  
  
"No, no," he begged, trying to push away from her, "Just take me home, Maggie, please."  
  
"Por favor, mi amor, you never got to say goodbye." Holding his head between her hands, she put her forehead to his and forced him to make eye contact. "You deserve the chance to say goodbye. It's the only way you can finish grieving. You have to do this, or you'll never be able to let go of that terrible night. Please, mi vida, be brave. Do this today."  
  
He shook his head and said, "Please, don't make me. I can't."  
  
"You *can*, querido. You must. I'll be here for you, but you must do this."  
  
She continued to murmur soothing encouragement, and he slowly calmed down. When he stopped crying, she put an arm around his shoulders and gently guided him back to Lynn's grave. For a while, they just stood there, Maggie rubbing his back, and Steve stealing glances at the headstone, but not quite able to really look at it.  
  
"I know you loved her, Steve. Now you need to say goodbye. You need to give yourself permission to let go."  
  
"I-I don't know what to do."  
  
Maggie put the flowers in his hand and said, "Talk to her, cariño."  
  
"About what?"  
  
Gently, Maggie said, "About how you loved her, and how you miss her. How you wish you'd been able to help. About how hard it's been to move on."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"Then, if you're ready, say a prayer for her soul, and tell her adiós."  
  
He nodded.  
  
Maggie placed an infinitely gentle kiss at his temple and said, "I'll be waiting for you in the car, ok?"  
  
He nodded again, and she walked away, pausing just once to look over her shoulder at him, hoping she was doing the right thing and praying that he'd be ok.  
  
  
  
  
  
He stood for a long time, just looking at the grave. He really didn't know what to say or do, and he was sure if Lynn's family or friends happened by, he would be asked to leave. He almost turned around and left, but for some reason, he couldn't.  
  
Smiling almost shyly, he said, "That's Maggie."  
  
He felt stupid talking to a headstone, but he tried to trust Maggie's advice and continued.  
  
"I don't even know if you would care, Lynn, but she's been taking good care of me. She knows how I feel…felt about you, maybe better than you did, and she's ok with it. She brought me here today."  
  
He felt his chest tighten. "I never got to say goodbye, Lynn, and I'm sorry about that. You'd been brought here before my sight came back well enough for me to go see you at the morgue, and I didn't think I'd be welcome here for the service. I suppose I could have asked my dad to take me to the morgue, but he was so worried about me already. When I got back to work, it was easier to just put it all away." He smiled ruefully. "Until I met Maggie."  
  
He placed the flowers on her grave and sat cross-legged beside it.  
  
"Maggie bought these so I could give them to you. She didn't tell me we were coming here, so forgive me for how I reacted at first. I didn't think I was ready to face you."  
  
Now that he'd started talking, the words came easier. He could feel a storm brewing inside, and he could tell it would be a big one, but he couldn't stop now. Tears slipped from his eyes.  
  
"I-I miss you, Lynn. It's been eight months, and still sometimes, I catch a glimpse of a stranger, and for just a moment, I think it might be you. God! I wish things had been different."  
  
He burst into sobs, and for several minutes, he just sat there, weeping bitterly. When he regained some semblance of control, he continued, but the tears still flowed freely.  
  
"If I had been there when it happened, I'd have stopped them, Lynn. If I had known what you were doing, I'd have found someone to help you. I am so, so sorry I couldn't help."  
  
He knew what had just happened was a squall on the leading edge of a powerful front. He wanted badly to avoid the storm that was to come, but he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't stop the emotions rolling through him now.  
  
"God, Lynn! I *loved* you. Why the *hell* didn't you see that?"  
  
He sat shaking as he struggled to maintain his tenuous control over his emotions. After a few shaky breaths, he went on.  
  
"I loved you, Lynn. Still do."  
  
Tears sprang to his eyes again and quickly spilled over. His chin trembled, and he hunched up into a little, miserable ball.  
  
"I-I'm sorry…so sorry…I never told you before. Oh, God, Lynn, I'm sorry…for not telling you…for not showing you often enough…for not helping you."  
  
Now that he had finally told her the one thing he couldn't say when she was alive, he couldn't stop the rest of his thoughts and concerns from pouring out. He started babbling, hoping a continuous stream of chatter would help him contain the tempest threatening to break through, but as the words flowed from him, the emotions only became stronger.  
  
"I still feel like it's all *my* fault, Lynn. If I had just said I loved you, would you have believed me? Would you have confided in me? Would you have let me help you?"  
  
He knew he was begging for answers where there were none to be found, but the questions had been haunting him for months. Guilt and grief and doubt poured from him as he wept and pleaded with the mute grave.  
  
"If I had told you I loved you, would you still have made me kill you? Would you have even cared how I felt about you? Why did it have to happen, Lynn? Why?"  
  
He wailed his last question to the heavens, and as the cyclone of emotions raced across his soul, the sky split open with a lightning bolt and it began to pour. The tortured sounds of his grief were swallowed in the falling rain and roaring thunder. 


	8. Chicken Soup

Maggie looked at her watch again. She really hadn't expected Steve to be out there so long. It was nearly two now. He'd been with Lynn almost four hours. Maggie was beginning to worry, but she was loath to intrude on what would be a very painful, private moment. It had been raining a good twenty minutes. Just as she finally decided to go find Steve and make him come get warmed up and dried off, she saw him coming over the hill. She started the engine and turned on the heater.  
  
Steve opened the passenger door and dropped heavily into the seat. He pulled the door shut and sat shivering, not saying a word. Jesús, María, y José, he looked like hell. After a few moments, Maggie reached around him and pulled out the seatbelt. Steve didn't resist or argue as she buckled him up and said, "Let's get you back to the inn. I think a hot shower and a change of clothes will do you much good."  
  
  
  
  
  
Back at the inn, Steve was so passive it frightened her. She had to unbuckle his seatbelt for him, open the door, lead him by the hand to their suite, and help him undress. She turned on the heater in the bathroom and started a good hot shower. After leading him into the bathroom and coaxing him into the shower, she put a washcloth and a bar of soap in his hands and told him to scrub up while she got his clothes.  
  
She decided to get out his pajamas. He looked exhausted, and the pj's would be warm and comfortable. She didn't think they'd be going anywhere else today, so she might as well try to help him relax.  
  
Steve stepped out of the shower when she asked him, and he let her dry him off. When she gave him the pajamas and left him alone, he dressed himself and waited for her to come back.  
  
'Dios mío,' she wondered. 'What have I done?'  
  
She led him back to his room, tucked him in bed, and sat on the mattress beside him.  
  
"¿Quieres hablar? Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
He shook his head no, and she told him, "Ok. I've ordered up some soup. It should be here any minute. It might make you feel better."  
  
He nodded.  
  
  
  
  
  
Maggie sat on the king-sized bed waiting for room service to deliver the soup. She could tell Steve was hurting, and she felt responsible. If she had just overlooked his slip of the tongue the other night, or if she had just let it go after he had cried himself out, maybe that would have been enough. She brushed a lock of hair away from his face, and he made no move to pull away. He didn't even close his eyes as her hand approached his face. The still, stony silence unnerved her.  
  
No, she hadn't been wrong in bringing him here. For him to be this…undone by a visit to a cemetery, she knew he still had to have a lot of unresolved feelings about Lynne Conklin. It would be difficult for him to work through his emotions surrounding her, but Maggie was determined to help him. This first step had been horrific for him, but now that he had opened up that box where he'd been keeping his emotions all this time, he could finally start to sort them out.  
  
The room service waiter arrived with a cart bearing two bowls of chicken noodle soup, toast points, a teapot full of piping hot water, and a selection of herbal teas. Also, as she had requested, there was a lap tray that Steve could eat from while sitting in bed. She thanked the waiter, tipped him, and sent him on his way telling him that she would put the cart in the hall when they were finished.  
  
Maggie made a show of wafting the steam from the soup up toward her face and said, "Mmmm, huele bien. It smells good. I have heard that their chef is increíble." She settled the tray over Steve's lap and placed his soup and toast on it. "What kind of tea would you like, corazón?" When she got no answer, she chose a chamomile blend, thinking that its soothing effects were just what Steve needed.  
  
The silence was really wearing on her nerves now. She had never been a quiet person, and this unyielding stillness was becoming more than she could bear. As the tea brewed, she spooned up some soup and lifted it to Steve's mouth. "Por favor, mi vida. Please, baby, ¿Tomas un poco? Eat just a little?" The chilling quiet swallowed her words, but, after a moment, he opened up and ate what was on the spoon.  
  
Maggie felt a wave of relief wash over her. At least he hadn't shut down completely. Some part of him had heard and responded to her.  
  
For the next several minutes, Steve allowed her to spoon the hot soup into him. He ate a couple of the toast points, and sipped some of the tea, but he never said a word. Hoping to draw him out a little more, she held the spoon out to him and said, "¿Quieres hacerlo tú mismo?" For a heartbeat, his eyes met hers, and she saw recognition there, recognition, and unspeakable pain, but he accepted the spoon, and as she suggested, he fed himself.  
  
In the stillness, Maggie ate most of her soup and all of her toast and fixed herself a cup of strong, hot peppermint tea to settle her increasingly nervous stomach. Then she noticed that Steve had quit eating altogether and was sitting, motionless, staring straight ahead. "¿Un poco más, mi amor? Just a little more?" When he made no move to finish the soup, she took the spoon and held it to his lips.  
  
He turned his head away.  
  
"Te entiendo. I get it. You've had enough."  
  
She ran her fingers through his hair, picked up the mug of hot tea and put it in his hand thinking that even if he didn't drink anymore, at least holding on to the warm mug might soothe him, and then she took the tray from his lap. She sat beside him and placed a hand on his thigh. She wasn't sure if he was comforted by her presence and her touch, but she figured if it actually bothered him, he'd pull away.  
  
After several minutes, Steve gulped down the rest of his tea and wordlessly held the mug out to Maggie. Taking it from his hand, she asked, "¿Más?"  
  
Steve shook his head no, so, she put the mug on the cart and pushed it out into the hall. For a long time, they sat quietly, Steve staring off into space, and Maggie, trying to be a comforting presence, sitting beside him on the bed, holding his hand, and gently rubbing his arm. Finally, the silence became too much for her.  
  
"Háblame, corazón. Please, Steve, say something."  
  
He looked at her then, a broad, shaky smile, more a grimace, pasted on his face. He could only maintain the flimsy charade a couple seconds, and the smile collapsed. His chin trembled as tears welled up in his eyes and spilled over, tracing wet trails down his pale cheeks.  
  
"I couldn't say goodbye, Maggie," he choked out his words. "I still love her. I couldn't say goodbye." 


	9. Hugs

Relieved that Steve was finally talking, Maggie enveloped him in a hug. He didn't hug back, he wouldn't cling to her, but he didn't resist what little comfort she could offer, either. He wept quietly as she held him in her arms and rocked him gently.  
  
"Está bien, corazón," she soothed. "It's ok, baby. You don't have to stop loving her, and as for saying goodbye, cuando estás listo, when you are ready."  
  
Of their own volition now, his arms reached up to embrace her, and for a moment, holding on to her eased his pain. Then he moaned, a terrible, choked off sound, as if it hurt too much to bear, and he pushed her away with such force she fell off the bed and hit the floor with a thump. He pressed his back up against the headboard, drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his long arms around them, and rested his chin on his knees.  
  
Maggie got up off the floor, and reached out slowly to caress his face, but Steve ducked away. Her fingers ached to touch his skin, but she would not push him. Letting her hand drop to her side, she sat on the edge of the bed again and asked, "¿Qué pasa, mi amor? What's the matter?"  
  
Steve shook his head and said, "Nothing."  
  
"No me mientas, querido. Don't lie to me, Steve. That was *not* nothing."  
  
Steve rested his forehead against his knees now, hiding his face from Maggie's penetrating gaze, and put his hands over his head.  
  
"This isn't fair to you, Mags," he said to his knees.  
  
"¿Qué?" The single word conveyed a world of frustration and confusion.  
  
Raising his head, demanding from himself that he at least have the courage to look her in the eye, he said, "I know it was all my idea for us to…get together. I know you didn't want to. You knew I wasn't ready…"  
  
"Steve," she tried to interrupt. There was no need for him to punish himself for *her* benefit. He'd done nothing wrong. By now he should know that Margarita Sara Oviedo Hyman did *nothing* she did not wish to do.  
  
"Please, Maggie," he had to finish what he'd started to say. "You didn't want to get together, but I kept insisting, and you finally gave in only to have me…"  
  
He trailed off, unable to speak about what he'd done the other night.  
  
"And then you brought me here to help me and you find out I'm still in love with *her*."  
  
He tucked his chin down began banging his head lightly against his knees.  
  
"Steven?" She said it very gently, and put a hand on his shoulder.  
  
Steve froze. She had never, ever used his full name before, and her voice was so serious, somehow he knew this was the most important thing she had ever said to him. In his chest and stomach, he could actually *feel* how much she wanted him to hear her and understand. He lifted his head and faced her again. Her obsidian eyes shone softly, the light in them neither the sparks of anger, nor the fires of passion, nor the glint of love. It was the warm glow of friendship and shining affection.  
  
"Steven," she said again, more firmly this time, knowing he was able now to listen. "We have been amigos…good friends for a while, ¿Sí?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"We will still be friends when this is over, and right now, my friend is hurting. Please let me…comfort him."  
  
Steve nodded again, and Maggie moved closer. She opened her arms to him, offering a hug. Steve threw himself into her arms, clutching at her this time, needing so badly to be consoled, drawing strength, feeling grateful to have a friend who loved him so much, and damning the consequences. 


	10. A Restless Night

Maggie tossed and turned in bed. She'd spent the whole afternoon in Steve's room, sometimes holding him when he cried, sometimes listening as he told her about Lynn, sometimes just sitting with him so he wouldn't be alone. When he'd finally drifted off to sleep, she turned the TV on, with the volume low, and read the newspaper to pass the time. Now she was mentally and emotionally exhausted, but she still had too much pent up kinetic energy to let her sleep. She wasn't used to sitting still so long.  
  
She sighed, rolled over, and cursed the full moon that made the blinds in her window glow. Turning the other way, she cursed the nightlight she'd left on in the bathroom, but knew she'd never get up and turn it off. Steve might wake in the night and need something. She rolled onto her back, groaned, and cursed the giggling couple in the hall. Then she picked up her pillow and put it over her face, pinning it close to the sides of her head with her hands. The big, squishy pillow could block out light and noise, but it did nothing to still her troubled thoughts; so, she cursed it and them, too.  
  
She wanted Steve, ached to be near him, and had done so from the moment she caught herself checking him out as she watched him checking out the blond in line ahead of him at the bank. When she'd seen the emotions that crossed his face--joy, confusion, recognition, disappointment, sorrow, pain, and guilt--all in a two-second flash as the woman turned and walked past him without a word, she had know this was one good-looking gringo with a whole lot of problems. Usually, other people's problems sent Maggie running for the hills. She'd dealt with quite enough of her own in the past and didn't make a habit of getting entangled in anyone else's, but for some reason, with this guy, she'd wanted to fix everything for him.  
  
Then the gunshots had erupted in the bank, she and the gringo cop had stopped the robbery, and he'd driven her to the emergency room where her future boss (who happened to be his father) had dug a bullet out of her culo. Then she and the cop had found the robbery was just a distraction to cover the murder of a bank executive who was about to provide evidence to the FBI on a drugs/sex-slavery/illegal-immigration/money-laundering operation. They'd nearly caused an international incident when they found their liaison with the Mexican government and police was involved in the crimes. Finally, they had brought him and the rest of the organization down, and made it back home, more than a little worse for wear. It had taken them almost two weeks to write all the reports, and the trickiest part proved to be explaining how Steve had been thrown in jail for nearly beating the cojones off Ramírez.  
  
After the trip to Mexico, Maggie had taken a job at Community General as an infectious disease and ER specialist, thumbed her nose at the FBI supervisor who'd spent the last five years breaking his promises to stop dragging her out of the lab and trying and make a field agent of her, and found herself gently but insistently fending off advances from her newest friend, the brave and sexy, troubled gringo cop. After about a month, she'd finally relented. They'd had a few very pleasant dates, and when Mark had gone off to the conference in Houston, Steve had convinced her to take a week off and spend it with him.  
  
Now, here she was, spending a sleepless night at a B&B in a little Northern California town with a Spanish name where she had yet to meet a single person who spoke Spanish. The object of her desires was just a few feet away. She was trying to decide which she needed more, a cigarette, or a cold shower, when she turned on her side again, tossed the pillow away, and opened her eyes to see Steve's form silhouetted in the glow of the bathroom nightlight.  
  
"Maggie?"  
  
"¿Qué quieres?"  
  
Steve shrugged. He didn't know what he wanted, but he knew how he felt.  
  
"I…don't feel like being alone right now."  
  
She lifted the blanket and slid over to make room for him.  
  
"Ven aquí."  
  
"Maggie, are you sure?"  
  
She wasn't sure what would happen, but she was sure she wanted him in her bed eventually, so she said yes.  
  
"Mags, I really don't want…that is…"  
  
"You don't want to have sex. I understand. We are both tired and need sleep, and you don't want to be alone. We can be together here, asleep in the bed as well as we can be together awake and sitting or standing anyplace else."  
  
Steve hesitated. She patted the mattress beside her, and he reluctantly came over and lay down beside her. She curled up close to him and hugged him around his chest. He wrapped his both arms around the long, tanned arm she had thrown over him, pulled it to his face, and kissed it. Then he turned on his side and snuggled back against her, letting her cradle and comfort him yet again.  
  
"Gracias, Maggie."  
  
"De nada, gringo," she murmured on a yawn and cuddled closer, wrapping her arms protectively around him and rubbing soft circles on his stomach.  
  
Soon, Steve heard her breathing even out and her hand stopped its circular motion on his abdomen, and, feeling safe and warm and loved in her arms, he settled down for the night and quickly followed her into dreamland. 


	11. Breakfast

Maggie awoke to the sunlight glowing golden through the blinds; Steve curled up against her, large and warm. She'd been so restless last night, but once he came to her and lay down in her arms, all her unease had slipped away. That single act of trust, his admission of need, had been all it took to settle her mind about the way things ought to be. She would stay with him, whatever it took, and be a friend until he was ready to decide how he felt about her.  
  
She put out some clothes, went into the bathroom, and quickly showered. She dried her thick, dark hair with a towel, and then wrapped another towel around it. Sliding on her luxurious terrycloth robe, she used it to dry her arms, shoulders, front, and thighs. When she went back to her room, she instantly felt Steve's eyes upon her.  
  
She looked at him and said, "Good morning."  
  
Instead of answering right away, he sat up, stretched and scratched, and said, "It has potential."  
  
She looked at him for a moment, and while she saw no mirth in his eyes, she saw no bitterness either. He meant exactly what he said; there was the potential for it to be a good morning. Honestly, it was more than she had expected.  
  
"Do you want to shower while I order up breakfast?"  
  
He though a moment and said, "That sounds like a good idea. I am a little hungry."  
  
"Is that a little hungry as in a bagel and cream cheese or as in the big blond gringo has eaten nothing more than some toast and chicken soup in the past twenty-four hours and he's ready to chew the leg off a table?"  
  
He smiled at her feeble joke, and when she saw the twinkle in his eye, it made her heart soar.  
  
"That's a little hungry as in a western omelet, toast, sausage, juice, and strong coffee would be most welcome."  
  
"Bueno, comprendo. Go wash yourself, and I will call down."  
  
While Steve was showering, she placed his order and requested French toast and juice for herself. Then she changed into a celery green chenille sweater and matching jeans. She dried her hair and put on a touch of makeup. The food arrived just as she finished, and she had barely uncovered the meal when Steve came back into her room in tight, faded blue jeans, and a dark green turtleneck under a green, white, and gray plaid flannel shirt. He was tucking the shirt into his pants as Maggie sat two chairs up to the room service cart, which she intended to use as a table, when she looked down and saw that he was barefoot.  
  
She felt something twist inside her. For some reason she could never figure out, bare feet on an otherwise fully dressed man turned her on like a switch did a light. She took two deep breaths, in…and out, and knew it wasn't going to help. Excusing herself and leaving Steve alone with breakfast and his confusion, she went to his room and found him some socks and shoes.  
  
Returning moments later, she lied, saying, "The floor is cold. Te vas a resfriar." Tossing the footwear to the floor beside him, she continued, "Put them on."  
  
He looked at her, amused at her motherly attitude, and said, "¿Resfriar?"  
  
"To catch a cold," she told him.  
  
He nodded and smiled, and again, she felt unutterably happy.  
  
"All right, Mom." He complied willingly.  
  
They ate together in silence, the only sounds the slight clinking of flatware against dishes or the sound of swallowing.  
  
  
  
  
  
Having finished his breakfast, Steve poured himself another cup of coffee, leaned away from the table, crossed his legs, and tried to look relaxed. After a couple swallows, he could bear the silence no more.  
  
Nervously, he asked, "So, uh, Maggie? What did you have in mind for me today?"  
  
When she looked up, Maggie noticed that Steve suddenly became intensely interested in the rim of his coffee cup. Recognizing the defense mechanism for what it was--a means to avoid meeting her eyes in case she said something that he didn't want to hear--she took no offense as he seemed to almost ignore her as she spoke.  
  
"All of these are suggestions only, and you can say no to any of them or all of them. ¿Comprendes?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"I thought maybe we could go for a walk through town, just to see what it's like. This is where she grew up, and I thought it might make you feel like you knew her better."  
  
"Ok. What else?"  
  
Steve didn't seem too distressed with the idea, so she decided to go a little further.  
  
"I found information in the local newspaper about her. Things she did in school. If we go to the library, we can get those articles on microfilm. I thought you might like to read about what she was like as a kid."  
  
"Uh-huh," he whispered. "Or?"  
  
He had drawn his lower lip between his teeth and was chewing on it thoughtfully. Maggie noticed that his breathing had quickened a little. She knew this was all difficult for him, and she hated to see him hurting, but she felt he could handle a little more, and she knew, sooner or later, he would have to face it anyway, so she continued.  
  
"We could go to her school and talk to some of her teachers, or we could go see her parents and maybe meet some of her friends."  
  
Steve's head snapped up, his expression troubled, his eyes clearly revealing pain.  
  
"Maggie, I can't do that. There's no way I could possibly do that. Please don't make me to do that." He sat shaking his head, his voice pleading.  
  
She refused to allow him to get carried away. She could see already that he was running through all the most horrible possible outcomes in his mind, and she would not permit him to get all worked up over ifs and maybes. Crouching beside him, she squeezed his shoulder with one hand, and helped him still the trembling coffee cup with the other.  
  
"Cariño," she said gently, "We don't have to do any of these things. I was just making suggestions. It is up to you. ¿Qué quieres hacer?"  
  
Steve stood up and set his coffee on the table, leaving Maggie still crouched by his chair. She stayed where she was, reluctant to disturb him more, as he went to the window and looked out.  
  
After a long, tense silence, he said, "Ah, Mags, I don't know what I want to do."  
  
She went to stand beside him, still saying nothing. She didn't touch him, she didn't look at him, and she didn't speak; but she was *there* for him. She listened for several minutes as he struggled to calm himself. They looked out the window at the garden for a long while before she heard his ragged breathing even out.  
  
Then she said, "Or we could just watch the grass grow."  
  
She cast a sideways glance at him, and saw him close his eyes and shake his head at her bad joke, a slight smile on his face.  
  
When Steve finally spoke, his voice was a little sad, but fully controlled.  
  
"I owe you an apology, Maggie."  
  
"¿Qué?" She looked at him askance, plainly confused.  
  
"I was wrong to come to you last night, Maggie, to come to your bed just because I didn't want to be alone. I'm sorry."  
  
"Steve, amigo mío, it is ok."  
  
"No, Maggie, it's not, I…"  
  
She sighed in frustration and interrupted. "Steve, you were *right* to come to me when you needed a friend. The fact that I was in bed at the time is completely…no importa. It doesn't matter. I was glad to be there for you. I will always be glad to be there for you. You did nothing wrong, and we will say no more about it."  
  
He turned to face her then, and gave a sheepish smile.  
  
"Thanks, Maggie."  
  
They watched the garden for several more minutes, then Steve said, "Let's take that walk. Maybe then we can go to the library." 


	12. Damos un Paseo

Steve and Maggie stepped out of the B & B and into a beautiful morning. Granted, it wasn't as warm as Malibu, but the sky was clear and blue, and the light, crisp breeze was refreshing. Not knowing a thing about the town, Steve contented himself with letting Maggie lead the way.  
  
"Are we going anywhere in particular, Mags?"  
  
"No, gringo, just…damos un paseo. Going for the walk, I think you say?"  
  
"*A* walk, Maggie."  
  
"Oh, sí, claro."  
  
Steve smiled.  
  
The B & B was an old, converted Victorian house just a few blocks from the main commercial area of town, and as they made their way down the street, the houses became fewer and fewer, giving way to little specialty shops, a bakery and a hairdresser, then discount stores. A Thom McAnn shoe store and a JCPenney's department store marked beginning of the true business sector.  
  
Downtown Santa Mera was a single, wide, brick-paved street, shut off to automobile traffic between eight and eight every day. An eclectic collection of shops lined one side, and a number of imposing government buildings, including a post office, a town hall, a police station, and a jail, lined the other. Lovely little fountains, picnic areas, and small landscaped areas were scattered along both sides of the street, clearly filling in the spaces where vacant or condemned buildings had been. The pair window-shopped as they walked down the street side by side, and, stopping in one shop, Maggie picked out a floppy green hat that matched her outfit. She tried it on, and it looked good, but when she inspected the price tag, grimaced, and gingerly put it back on the display, Steve had to laugh.  
  
"Too rich for your blood, huh?"  
  
She grinned and said, "At that price, I would need a parasol, too, to protect it from the sun."  
  
Stepping into a used bookstore, they browsed for quite some time. Maggie loved the musty, dusty smell, and Steve found the quiet atmosphere soothing. When they finally left, Steve had selected an antique medical text for his dad, and Maggie had a couple of well-worn paperbacks.  
  
He arched one brow haughtily at her when she snickered at his selection.  
  
Upon seeing his expression, she said, "Steve, I am sure your papi will appreciate the thoughtfulness, but that text is so old, antiguo, Galen himself could have written it."  
  
"It just so happens my father collects antique medical texts, Maggie."  
  
Maggie giggled. "Your papi collects *everything*, gringo."  
  
Steve was forced to grin. "There's no denying fact," he admitted, "But the truth is, at Christmas, while we were shopping for Jesse and Amanda, I saw him admiring a volume with this same title, but he put it back. When I went back to check it out, the price was outrageous. It would have blown my budget, so I didn't get it for him. This copy I can afford."  
  
"Is it authentic?"  
  
Steve's face rumpled into a frown as he considered. "I think so," he said uncertainly.  
  
As he gave Steve his change, the cashier said, "I assure you, it is, sir, but if you are unsatisfied, our return policy is at the bottom of the receipt."  
  
"Thank you," Steve said as he took the change and, looking at Maggie, he gave a little 'hmph' that sounded just like, "So there."  
  
Scrutinizing Maggie's purchases, Steve laughed out loud.  
  
"A woman of your education and accomplishments reads trash like that?"  
  
"What do you mean, 'trash?'"  
  
"Maggie," he said, thumbing the pages of the much-abused Harlequins. "This stuff is drivel for lonely housewives and undereducated, oversexed adolescents who never grew up."  
  
She drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable, even in Steve's estimation, and when she narrowed her eyes at him, he involuntarily took a step back.  
  
"That is the point, gringo." The way she said the word 'gringo,' it could just as well have been 'insect.' "Fish is brain food, and this is brain candy. After a hard day at work, even with *my* sometimes not so good English, I can read one of these in a few hours, and feel good at the end." She handed the cashier a ten-dollar bill and waited for him to make change.  
  
"It's totally unrealistic."  
  
"No more than what you have bought your papi."  
  
Steve started to protest that his purchase had value as an antique and a document of past scientific inquiry, but Maggie overrode him.  
  
"The whole point is fantasy and escape, Steve. Dos novios, two lovers always overcome the worst possible horrors to be together and happy in the end. It is a formula. I know what's going to happen. Tell me a title, and I could probably write one of my own. It is comforting. Two people who love each other get a happy ending."  
  
She probably didn't mean to, but something she said struck a chord within Steve. He had loved Lynn, he knew that now, and he was pretty sure he loved Maggie, but for some reason he doubted he would ever be allowed a happy ending.  
  
Crestfallen, he said simply, "Point taken. I'll be waiting outside."  
  
He went out and sat on a bench in front of the store.  
  
  
  
  
  
Maggie stood outside the bookstore watching Steve for several minutes. He was seated on the bench, leaning back, staring off into space, unaware that he was being watched. Apparently, something she said had affected him, but she didn't know what.  
  
Finally, she walked over and sat beside him. Putting a hand on his arm, she said simply, "Steve?"  
  
Steve tensed when Maggie spoke his name. She was clearly issuing an invitation to talk about what was on his mind, but he didn't want to talk right now. He didn't want to talk about Lynn and what had happened to her. He didn't want to talk about Maggie and himself and all that had already passed between them and what might come in the future. And he most definitely did *not* want to talk about happy endings that never came true.  
  
Maggie paused long enough for Steve to say something if he felt like talking, but when he tensed and remained silent, she knew what he wanted.  
  
"Bueno, let's keep shopping, then."  
  
Steve turned his hand over, and reached for Maggie's, which was still resting on his forearm. Lacing his fingers through hers, he pulled the hand up to his lips for a quick kiss, and said affectionately, "Thanks, Mags."  
  
They wandered aimlessly a while longer, walking down the street hand-in hand, window shopping and talking about things of little consequence. At the far end of the commercial district, Maggie coaxed Steve into a small boutique with her as she shopped for shoes. After nearly half an hour, she finally settled on a pair of orange suede sandals with impossibly high heels and long, soft, suede ties that wrapped, criss-crossing, all the way up her shapely legs to the knees.  
  
"I have the perfect outfit for these," she said. "What do you think?"  
  
She walked toward him, tall, confident, moving as if she were made to wear the six-inch heels, and she stopped so close to him, he could feel the heat from her body.  
  
He grinned, *up* at her, he realized, with some…excitement?…as she now towered over him by at least four inches, and said hoarsely, "I think I like them a lot."  
  
She smiled *down* at him, and he wondered if this is how Jesse sometimes felt.  
  
"Just wait until you see the dress," she whispered.  
  
There was something in her voice, part threat, part promise, and completely enthralling. Her eyes met his, and Steve's heart leapt to his throat.  
  
  
  
  
  
Maggie looked down into the endless depths of those impossible blue eyes and waited. Steve needed to make the next move. If he needed a friend, he could step away; if he wanted more, he could take what he wanted. She wanted him more than anything, but she would not push. She ached for his kiss, burned for his touch, but she would not push. They were inches apart, but she would not push. She'd give him anything he asked, but he had to reach out for it. She would not push. When he put his hands on her, a tremor ran through her. Suddenly, she wanted to wrap herself around him and cling to him forever, but she *would not* push.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve moved closer, and placed his hands at her waist. He felt her tremble at his touch. She stepped towards him and closed the gap between their bodies. He looked up into those dark, dark eyes, black as the night sky and eternal as the universe, and he was amazed that they could glow so brightly with passion. He let his hands work their way up her back until they were tangled in her thick, curly, black hair, and he pulled her face fractionally closer to his…  
  
  
  
  
  
"Excuse me!"  
  
Steve and Maggie jumped apart, and Maggie cried out as she twisted her ankle. Steve caught her before she fell, and helped her limp over to a seat. The poor clerk who had interrupted was clearly embarrassed, but not half so much as Steve and Maggie. All three tried to sputter and stammer humiliated apologies to the other two, and no one could understand a word anybody was saying until Maggie raised her voice and said, "¡Cállense!"  
  
She continued in English for the benefit of the clerk.  
  
"Please, stop talking." She looked at the clerk and grinned. "I love the shoes. I'll take them." She undid the ties as Steve brought her the box. Then she rooted through her purse for her credit card, handed the whole mess to the clerk and said, "Would you be so kind as to do me the favor of ringing them up and bringing the slip to me to sign. I think I may have injured my ankle and need a few minutes to make sure I can walk back to our hotel."  
  
The clerk nodded and shuffled away to ring up the sale.  
  
"Mags, are you hurt? Do you need me to get some ice or take you to the hospital?"  
  
Maggie chuckled and said, "I think I can just walk it off, but this saves everyone some…vergüenza...I think the word is sham? Would you bring me my sneakers?"  
  
Steve grinned and said, "Shame. A sham is a deception or a trick."  
  
"Maldito silent 'e'," she muttered as she slipped her tennis shoes on. "It's no wonder Americans can't spell their own language."  
  
Steve grinned again and said, "You're an American, too, sweetheart."  
  
Looking up at him, she winked, and said, "That is because God blessed America…with me."  
  
She stood up, and took a couple of tentative steps, and by the time the clerk returned, she had decided she was fit to walk back to the hotel. Even though she insisted she was fine, Steve demanded to carry her packages and as they left the store, he slipped his arm around her waist to offer support. They crossed the street and headed back toward the hotel, which was about ten blocks away, and every other bench, he would pause and ask Maggie if she wanted to sit, until finally, she promised him she would tell him if she needed to sit and that he should stop inquiring because it was getting on her nerves.  
  
He just smiled and said, "But that's my job."  
  
She laughed with him and gave him a playful punch on the arm, which he pretended was terribly painful so she could kiss it and make it better. Anyone who saw them together would have thought they were two young lovers, and not a pair of lost, confused souls trying to find their way from friendship to each other.  
  
Eventually, their wanderings stopped in front of the Santa Mera Public Library. They looked at each other for a while, and Steve finally shrugged and said softly, "I guess we might as well go in." 


	13. The Hero

Steve sat at one of the study tables in the main reference room of the Santa Mera Public Library. He was reading a feature article from the sports page that featured Lynn O'Hare, the woman that he knew as Lynn Conklin. This one was from her senior year and it described her relentless, four-year pursuit of the Santa Mera High School girl's basketball regular-season scoring record...  
  
…O'Hare was on a clear pace to break the school all-time regular season scoring record her junior year when a sprained ankle put her out for a third of the season. In her first game after the injury, she scored an amazing 20 points with four assists and six rebounds. She came back before she was at one hundred percent, though, and missed several more games. In her senior year, the record seemed out of reach, but she came on strong in the beginning, averaging an incredible 23.6 points per game, and by the second half of the season, not only was the school record a real possibility, but there was talk of her having an outside shot at the county record as well.  
  
O'Hare continued to play very well the second half of the season, still averaging over nineteen points per game, but to those who have been watching her for four years now, it was clear that she was tiring. The pressure to perform was wearing her down, and it could be seen in her game and in her attitude. She scored a paltry five points in the first half of the game at Cordova on January 31, and when she came back after halftime, she fouled three of the Lancer's players in the first four minutes of the third quarter. In a controversial move, Coach Jacqueline Murdock finally benched O'Hare when she got involved in a verbal altercation with the head official, saying, "If I didn't stop her, she could well have been suspended for the remainder of the season."  
  
The Lady Warriors suffered an embarrassing loss to Cordova with a final score of 63-39.  
  
Coach Murdock spent the next week in practice preparing her Warriors to face Folsom's Lady Bulldogs. A major priority was helping O'Hare to "get her head back in the game." O'Hare's, co-captain Elana Ramirez is said to have taken her aside for a chat to remind her that her primary responsibility was to the team.  
  
"She was going for the record too hard, taking bad shots and missing them," Ramirez said. "There is such a thing as playing too hard, and when you do that, you start to mess up. I just reminded her of how well she was doing in the first half of the season, when she was playing for the team and not for the record."  
  
Ramirez's little pep talk must have worked, because O'Hare came back the next week leading the Lady Warriors in a resounding 66-42 victory against Folsom scoring an impressive 19 points while giving four assists and managing ten rebounds. She made eight of her nineteen points from the free throw line, scoring one hundred percent.  
  
"I think that was the best game of my career," O'Hare said in an interview the next day. "Statistically, I have done better, but last night, I remembered what it was all about--the team winning. We win or we lose together, and I had forgotten that for a while, but last night, I was part of the team again."  
  
Even then, nobody knew what a strong team player O'Hare would prove to be.  
  
Against Oak Ridge, O'Hare broke the Santa Mera Warriors all-time regular season scoring record when she scored a career high 32 points, accounting for half of the Lady Warriors score in their 64-55 win over the Women Trojans. She also made three assists and twelve rebounds while again shooting one hundred percent from the free throw line.  
  
The county record was just eighteen points away. With one game left against the El Dorado Lady Cougars, it should have been easy.  
  
In the first half of Friday's game, O'Hare scored just seven of Santa Mera's twenty-two points, and they were down by four, but no one was worried. O'Hare had always been a slow starter, and she was already almost halfway to the record. If history held true, she would heat up after halftime and lead the Warriors in trampling yet another less worthy opponent.  
  
History would prove to be a liar.  
  
In the third quarter, O'Hare scored just two points on free throws, after being fouled by El Dorado's Tracy Wood, who had been doing an outstanding job of keeping O'Hare away from the basket all evening. In spite of Wood's efforts, though, O'Hare managed to get six rebounds and four assists by the end of the third quarter, helping her team to a 35-33 lead at the beginning of the fourth. Though tension was mounting, there was still little doubt that the Warriors would go on to section playoffs and O'Hare would be the new county career scoring champion for regular season play. There was simply no way the girls from El Dorado could keep up the brutal pace.  
  
In the final quarter, O'Hare started fast. Wood had been pulled out for a rest, and O'Hare took full advantage of the respite, scoring three baskets in the first two minutes, and, along with a three-pointer from Loretta Green and a lay-up by Shana Carroll, opened the Warriors lead to 46-33 over the Cougars.  
  
Then Wood was brought back into the game. For the next five minutes and fifty-three seconds, O'Hare barely got a hand on the ball.  
  
"Tracy was all over me," O'Hare said, clearly respectful of her talented opponent. "I think I might have made two passes, she just wouldn't let me get open. She was awesome."  
  
In the final seven seconds, with the Warriors down, 57-56, and O'Hare just one three-pointer away from the county record, Wood slipped up, and let O'Hare get open. Snatching a high pass from Elana Ramirez out of the air, O'Hare got the ball at the edge of the three-point circle. As one, the crowd came to its feet, fan and foe alike calling for the three, wanting to see the county record broken by this remarkable athlete.  
  
"When I landed, Tracy was right there in my face," O'Hare recalls. "I knew the score, I knew the time, and I knew we had to win to get to sectionals. I tried to break free, but Tracy stayed right with me. I don't think either of us ever played so well. Then I saw Shana. She was open, she was in position, and she has the most beautiful lay-up I have ever seen. We only needed two to win, so I passed it to her."  
  
Shana Carroll made the game-winning basket at the buzzer Friday night, but Lynn O'Hare was the hero…  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve sat back and sighed, proud of the young woman Lynn had been. The picture accompanying the article showed Lynn and Shana Carroll being hoisted on the shoulders of their teammates, giving each other a high-five. Lynn appeared jubilant, not concerned in the least that she had just missed setting the new county scoring record.  
  
Steve felt himself choke up, and his eyes started to burn as he considered what the article said about Lynn. She hadn't been so unselfish when he'd known her, and he knew, with sickening certainty, that the assault had taken that selfless aspect out of her nature. The Lynn he had known was pleasant and kind, but she was definitely looking out for number one. Knowing what she'd been through, he didn't blame her, but he wondered what it would have been like to know a different Lynn. He wished he'd had the opportunity to know the Lynn who would sacrifice her very last chance at the county record to take her team to the sectionals.  
  
Looking up at Maggie, Steve said, "I think I need to talk to someone who knew her." 


	14. Before Life Was So Cruel

Steve fidgeted uncomfortably at breakfast. He'd been ravenous when he first awoke, but now, he felt he could barely manage toast and coffee. After their stop at the library yesterday, he and Maggie had returned to the B&B for lunch. Then, after asking to be sure he really wanted to meet some of the people who had known Lynn, she had gone to her room to make some calls. They had gone for a drive that afternoon, and she had told him about her plans for tomorrow.  
  
He felt ok about meeting one of Lynn's teachers, her coach, and her major rival in basketball, but he wasn't at all sure he could face her parents after lunch. He really wished Maggie had asked him about that before she made the call, but now, after all she had done, he didn't feel right about asking her to cancel the meeting.  
  
He also felt ashamed. He had spent the night in her bed again, just because he didn't feel like being alone. She never said anything, but he could tell by the tension in her embrace that she wanted more than he was ready to give. He felt like a louse for taking advantage of her friendship and compassion the way he had, but he knew he'd do it again in a moment. He needed to know that, when this was all over, she'd be waiting for him. He couldn't bear the thought of letting go of Lynn only to find he had nothing to hold on to.  
  
"¿Qué piensas, gringo?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"What you thinking?"  
  
"Nothing, really. I'm just nervous, I guess."  
  
"I imagine so." She reached across the table and took his hand. "Steve, I know there's no way I can understand what you're going through, but worrying too much can only make it worse. You're honoring her memory by doing this. If you let the people you meet today know that, it shouldn't be so bad."  
  
"This is going to be so hard, Maggie."  
  
"I know, Steve, but I will be there for you."  
  
He smiled, bravely, he hoped. "Thanks, Mags, you're the best."  
  
  
  
  
  
Dwayne Moffett was a big man, balding on top, graying on the sides, and just a little neurotic. He was immaculately dressed in a dark gray suit. He looked like he belonged in it, even though he fidgeted with his tie a lot; and his alert gray-blue eyes darted across the crowd of students changing classes in the halls as he escorted Steve and Maggie to the teachers' lounge.  
  
"I'm the only one in this building who has third period planning," he told them, "so we should be able to talk in here without being interrupted. I'd invite you back to my classroom, but one of my students got sick during second period, and you just don't want to go in there until the custodian does something about it."  
  
Maggie grimaced and whispered, "That was way too much information."  
  
Steve grinned and hushed her. He liked Mr. Moffett already. The guy was a lot like his own eleventh grade English teacher. He supposed there was a factory somewhere that just kept cranking out these caring, fidgety, meticulous men, and he hoped they never stopped, because in his line of work, he met a lot of kids who needed someone to give a damn about them, and Mr. Moffett clearly gave a damn. Steve could tell by the way the kids greeted him on the hall that they liked and respected the man.  
  
"Kimberly Staton, where is your term paper," he greeted a girl in the hall.  
  
"I'll have it by fourth period, sir. I just have to finish the title page and bibliography."  
  
"It better be ready, you know you need this grade."  
  
"It will be, and you'll be proud of it," the kid grinned.  
  
"I hope so." The teacher tried to give the girl a stern, inscrutable look, but Steve could tell he liked her and was really looking forward to reading her paper.  
  
As they entered the lounge, Moffett said, "That young lady is a fine writer, but she has a real problem with deadlines, a lot like Lynn O'Hare."  
  
Steve felt his heart beat faster as he was taken by surprise by how quickly they had arrived at the reason for his visit.  
  
"I'm afraid we'll have to be brief, I have three parents to call, a meeting with the principal about the drama club's spring play, and lunch duty starts at twelve fifty-five. What did you want to know about Lynn?"  
  
Steve squirmed uncomfortably, and said, "I'm not really sure, sir. I just need to know more about her. You said she had trouble making deadlines…"  
  
"Well, Mr. Sloan…" The man paused a moment as if something had suddenly occurred to him. "Sloan! You're the one who shot her." Moffett's face turned an angry shade of red. "How *dare* you come here, expecting me to satisfy your morbid fascination with that lovely young woman. She's dead, and you're walking the streets, free, isn't that enough?"  
  
Steve was so shocked he couldn't respond. It was the first time anyone beside himself had ever blamed him for Lynn's death, and he found the accusation cut him to his very soul. For a moment, he thought the world would cave in around him, then he heard a voice break the silence.  
  
"Mr. Moffett, Steve shot Lynn in self-defense," he heard Maggie say.  
  
"Oh? You were there and saw it, I suppose."  
  
"No, but I know Steve Sloan, and I know he loved her. I know if there had been any other choice he would have taken it."  
  
"And I knew Lynn O'Hare. She never would have done what he says she did."  
  
"She dyed her hair and changed her name. That should tell you she wasn't the girl you knew anymore," Maggie argued. "The terrible thing that happened to her changed her…"  
  
Steve interrupted, grateful for her defense of him, but now able to speak for himself.  
  
"Maggie, it's ok. Mr. Moffett, you weren't there, and you don't know what really happened. You have no reason to believe me or forgive me just because I say I had no choice," Steve was willing to concede that point, "but I loved Lynn, more than even I realized, and since I've lost her, I've discovered that I really knew very little about her. It's natural for you to hold me responsible for what happened, after all, I am a stranger to you, but know this: You could never blame me for her death more than I already blame myself. She was troubled, and I didn't see it until was too late. Hate me all you want, if I had any sense, I would have expected it anyway. I am not asking for anyone's forgiveness, and I am not here seeking absolution. I just want you to honor her memory by telling me a little about what she was like before life was so cruel to her."  
  
Moffett sat chewing his lower lip and stared at Steve for a moment. He must have seen the sincerity in him, for after a minute or two, he began to talk freely.  
  
Lynn O'Hare was a hardworking student and a brilliant writer, so good in fact, that by the time Mr. Moffett had read her first paper, he knew he'd never be able challenge her and teach the rest of the class. So, he had pushed her to challenge herself. He gave her an A+ on her first paper, and told her the only way she would continue to earn A's would be to continue improving her work. Each time a paper was due, she was to come to him at lunch, and explain to him why she thought it was better than the previous one.  
  
"She got so wrapped up in honing her craft that she started missing the due dates," Moffett said. "The first time it happened, I let it slide, but then I had to start knocking off a plus or minus every day it was late."  
  
Wanting to improve not only her writing skill, but her speed as well, Lynn had given up her study hall to take typing and had joined the school newspaper to force herself to meet deadlines.  
  
"It was amazing," Moffett said. "Within a month, her writing was clearer, crisper, and she was even turning things in early. I haven't yet had a better student."  
  
Much to his chagrin, Moffett found that by midterms, she was making D's or F's in five of her other six classes and was in danger of losing her position on the team.  
  
"I talked to her about that, and she said all she wanted to do was write. So, I told her, 'Miss O'Hare, when you get to college, they will expect you to complete all of your coursework, even for those classes you do not enjoy.' She just looked at me and said, 'College?' She had never considered getting a degree. 'Surely you anticipate a basketball scholarship,' I said, and she shook her head and told me, 'No, sir, I just play because it's fun.'"  
  
With help from Coach Murdock, the guidance counselor, and a couple of other interested teachers, he convinced Lynn to go to college.  
  
"Kids like Lynn O'Hare are the reason I became a teacher, and the reason, after twenty-seven years, I still am one."  
  
Moffett looked at his watch then and said, "I must be going." He stood up and offered his hand to Steve and Maggie. "I don't know what to make of you, Mr. Sloan, but I am glad you came by. It was nice to talk about Miss O'Hare. She was an extraordinary young lady."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Steve said politely, "It was good for me to get to know more about her."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Just call me Jacqui," Lynn's former coach told them as she led them up the porch and into her tidy little house. "Would you care for coffee, tea, or something else?"  
  
"Coffee would be fine, thanks," Steve said.  
  
Maggie nodded her agreement, and the two of them waited in a small corner room that could only be called a parlor. It was immaculately clean, with not a speck of dust or a spot of clutter to be seen. A sofa, a chair, and a love seat, all covered in vibrant chintz and surrounding a low coffee table, filled most of the room, and photographs of what appeared to be family and friends decorated the walls. An enormous fern graced one window, and an even larger variegated spider plant filled the other. Below the fern, a tiered stand held a varied collection of healthy houseplants. There was neither television nor stereo, but instead Steve saw a tall, overstuffed bookshelf, and a small aquarium filled with vibrant tropical fish. Clearly, the main purpose for the room was to sit and chat with friends.  
  
The tall, lean, still-athletic older woman brought back a tray bearing a silver coffee service and three steaming cups of a rich potent brew. She was a woman who didn't scrimp on the small things. Steve and Maggie each accepted a cup and settled back to talk.  
  
"So," Jacqui began, "what did you want to know about Lynn O'Hare?"  
  
Steve summoned his courage and drew in a deep breath to implement the plan he and Maggie had worked out after the difficult encounter with Mr. Moffett.  
  
"Before we start, Jacqui, I think you have a right to know…" he swallowed hard, and before he could continue, Jacqui finished the thought for him.  
  
"That you're the cop who shot Lynn? I knew that as soon as I heard your name." She shrugged as if it were no big deal. "I must tell you, Detective Sloan--Steve, isn't it?--you have a lot of nerve coming around here. You were the local villain for several weeks, and though things have cooled off in the past few months, you shouldn't expect the town of Santa Mera to welcome you."  
  
Steve looked at her, dumbfounded, and finally managed to ask, "Then why are you talking to me?"  
  
"Because I know what it's like to be hated in the town of Santa Mera. Now, I ask you again, what do you want to know about Lynn O'Hare?"  
  
Lynn was angry that Coach Murdock had benched her in the game against Cordova her senior year. She'd been hardheaded and disrespectful during practice the following week, and only Murdock's suggestion that she might be benched again had settled her into the routine.  
  
"That's when Lynn started the gossip that would ruin my career, and nearly destroyed my life as well, though I suppose the truth can hardly be called gossip."  
  
At Steve's confused expression, she got up and took a picture down from the wall. As Steve studied the image of Jacquie and the petite blond, she told him, "I am a lesbian, Detective Sloan." When he looked up, a bit surprised at her bald statement, she smiled and said, "Anyone will tell you that. I know I seem to fit the stereotype to a 't', so it was easy for people to believe what was said."  
  
"So, what happened," Steve inquired.  
  
"Lynn O'Hare had a vicious streak, Detective. In general, she was a sweet, good-natured kid, but when you pissed her off, she got mean as hell. When I benched her, I pissed her off."  
  
"And she told people you were a lesbian," Steve guessed.  
  
"Yep. I don't think she believed it herself when she started the rumors, but when I refused to confirm or deny, well, it just so happens most of what people assumed was the truth."  
  
"'Most'?"  
  
"I don't think Lynn started this particular rumor, but there was talk that I molested some of my athletes. It was completely unfounded, but somehow, my performance evaluations started slacking off. The year after Lynn graduated, I was put on probation, and the following year, since I had shown 'no discernable improvement' in the performance of my duties, I was let go. I never behaved inappropriately with my girls, Detective. I loved them like my own children."  
  
Steve looked at the woman, and he could tell she spoke the truth. With all the sincerity he possessed, he told her, "I believe you." Then he asked, "You said the gossip nearly destroyed your life as well?"  
  
Jacqui nodded. "Like I said, I know I fit the stereotype. I'm a tough, single, female jock. My lover, everyone in town just said she was my roommate until Lynn said otherwise, was bi. She dated, and ran her own business, an insurance agency here in town. I didn't mind Suze going out with men," Jacqui said with a smile, "because she always came home to me. Besides, as she often pointed out to me, it kept the nosy neighbors from wondering."  
  
"Until Lynn started talking," Steve said.  
  
"Exactly. Then Suze's business dropped off. Clients left her, the office was vandalized, and this house was trashed. She couldn't take it anymore and she left me here alone. She's happily married, now, to a man who accepts her as she is, and they live in San Francisco. I guess that's another stereotype, but hey, only because it's so true. I haven't had a date in ten years. There are a few closeted lesbians in town, but if they're seen with me, well, they can't very well be in the closet any more."  
  
Steve smiled slightly. Jacqui Murdock was the philosophical sort. "You certainly don't seem to bear a grudge," he said.  
  
"What's the point of that? Lynn was just a stupid, stubborn kid. She had no idea what would be the fallout of her…malicious mouth."  
  
"Forgive me for asking," Maggie interrupted for the first time, "but why didn't you just leave with your lover?"  
  
"I don't know," Jacqui said. "At the time, I had a lot of reasons. I'd been teaching girl's PE and coaching basketball and track at Santa Mera High for twenty years and refused to believe the whole thing wouldn't just blow over. I truly didn't realize until they canned me that my career was through. My parents had moved here a few years before, to be closer to me as they aged, and I had just finished paying the mortgage on this house. No mouthy, angry kid was going to upset my life. If Suze wanted to run away, that was her choice. I chose to stand and fight, never suspecting that I would lose. By the time I realized I was beaten, I really didn't feel like starting over."  
  
Jacqui looked as if she had more to say, so Steve and Maggie waited quietly.  
  
Finally, the former coach continued. "Lynn was the kind of player a person is lucky to coach once in a lifetime, and in spite of everything, I am glad she was on my squad, but after my once, there wasn't even any point in looking for another coaching position. It could never get any better than it was when she played for me. I'm content, now. I've got my own home, a few true friends, and my parents nearby. And for four years, I coached the greatest player I have ever had the privilege of knowing."  
  
  
  
  
  
Back in the car, Maggie gave Steve a concerned look. "¿Qué pasa, gringo? What's the matter, Steve? You are too quiet."  
  
"I never have thought she'd be the type to spread gossip like that," he shook his head, astounded. "She deliberately smeared that woman's name, Maggie. She ruined her life. Lynn was a journalist. She was supposed to be interested in truth."  
  
"I suppose, Steve, but you have to remember what Jacqui said. At the time she was just a kid and probably didn't really know what the result of her actions would be."  
  
"I guess," Steve said. "Now we're off to see Tracy Wood, right?"  
  
"Her married name is Dickens," Maggie said.  
  
  
  
  
  
Like Jacqui, Tracy Wood, now Dickens, was not particularly disturbed by the fact that Steve had been the one to kill Lynn. She welcomed them into her home, shooed her children out to the back yard, and offered them some chocolate chip cookies with their coffee.  
  
"Once we got to high school, everyone had this idea that Lynn and I were great rivals. That was so wrong. We were really good friends. We had this dream of playing for the Hoosiers' Women's team at Indiana University in Bloomington, but the coaches had this stupid idea that we should compete for the one scholarship slot they had left. To this day, I don't know if I won it because Lynn was sick with the flu, or because she gave it to me."  
  
"You think she might have thrown the competition to give you the scholarship?"  
  
"I really don't know. What I do know is I was the *second* best player in the county at the time. Lynn should have gone to Indiana. I tried to tell the coaches that, but they said if I didn't take the scholarship, they'd give it to a girl from Wisconsin. Lynn told me she didn't want to be so far from home anyway, and she made me promise I'd go. So, I did."  
  
"How did you get to be such good friends?"  
  
Tracy laughed. "Lynn and I live right next door to each other until we started high school. My dad was transferred to a different store in the chain he worked for, and it was too far for him to commute. Since Mom's job was halfway between here and the new house, it didn't make much difference to her. I was the only one really affected by the move. I lost my best friend."  
  
"But you stayed close."  
  
"Yes. We saw each other at camp in the summer, and when we started driving, we found this park between her house and mine, and we got together a couple days a week to play ball. When my dad died of a heart attack in my junior year, Lynn was the first one to call round. She helped clean the house before the wake and sat with me through his funeral, and when basketball season came round again, she *made* me play."  
  
"*Made* you?"  
  
Tracy shook her head. "Lynn harassed and harangued me until I agreed to play, saying she needed someone who could give her some competition." After a quiet moment, Tracy continued. "I was so depressed after Dad died, I just sort of quit for a while. She nagged me into taking my life back."  
  
"I know this is an awkward question," Steve said, "but you didn't seem to be upset when I told who I was and what I had done. Why is that?"  
  
Tracy thought a moment, then said, "This is probably going to surprise you coming from someone professing to be her best friend, but I have no doubt that Lynn did exactly what the papers say you claimed she did. She could be mean and vindictive. When we were kids, she could fool most adults, but I knew what she was really like. I know what she did to her coach, and I know what stories she started. She wanted to hurt that woman, and she did. She later regretted it, but she told me there was no way she could take back what she said. She couldn't stand the humiliation of admitting her lies. Besides, as she put it, by then it was too late anyway. Everyone knew the truth about Coach Murdock."  
  
"Coach Murdock said she was vicious."  
  
"I'll be she also said she was a great kid."  
  
Steve nodded. "She did."  
  
"She told you the truth. Some people say what happened to Lynn…the rape…changed her. I think it just made the two sides of her personality more pronounced. She was a little skitzo even when we were in grade school. I think what happened later just completely unhinged her."  
  
Steve nodded, and stood to go, satisfied with the information he had gotten. Tracy rose and showed him and Maggie to the door.  
  
"I have to admit," Steve said as he stood on the front porch, "I find it strange that you would say all you have about your best friend to a complete stranger."  
  
Tracy became thoughtful. After a long moment, she said, "Lynn and I were always honest with each other and about each other. I don't think she would want that to change now."  
  
Steve shook her hand and thanked her, and as he turned to go, Tracy told him, "And Detective Sloan…"  
  
He looked back at her askance.  
  
"If in the end, she led you to believe she cared for you, it's because she really did."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Dickens, for telling me that."  
  
  
  
  
  
Back in the car, Maggie said, "Time for lunch."  
  
"Already?" Steve knew what was coming after lunch, and he wasn't sure he was ready for it. He wasn't sure he ever would be. 


	15. Meet the Folks--Mom

Maggie's lemon yellow Mustang had been parked outside the O'Hare house for fifteen minutes, but Steve could not find the courage to leave its safe confines and go to the door. Looking at Maggie, he pleaded, "Let's just leave."  
  
She reached over, and put a hand on his thigh. Turning to look him in the eye, she said, "We will go, if that is what you really want, but first you must know…I have already told them who you are and why you are here. I called them when I went to the powder room at lunch. Her mother still wanted to meet you."  
  
"Quite possibly to scratch my eyes out."  
  
"Perhaps, but it didn't seem that way to me, querido."  
  
"What about her dad?"  
  
"I don't know, gringo, but by now they have to know we're here. This car stands up, and we're the only ones parked on the street. It would be rude to just leave, but if that's what you want…"  
  
"Out, Maggie. The car stands out."  
  
"Oh. So, do we go in, or do we go away?"  
  
Steve thought a minute. Right now, he just wanted to go all the way back to Malibu, crawl in his bed, under the covers, and hide like a frightened child. So much for what he wanted. He *needed* to finish what he started. He needed to meet Lynn's parents, and then say goodbye.  
  
"Let's go in," he said.  
  
  
  
  
  
They went up on the porch of the small, white, two-story house, and Steve rang the bell. They waited for what seemed like forever, and Steve was about to turn tail and run when a tiny, slim, white haired woman in jeans and a pale yellow turtleneck opened the door. Her withered face rumpled into an uncertain smile as she peered at them through thick granny-glasses and said, "You must be Detective Sloan and Dr. Oviedo. I'm Elizabeth O'Hare, Lynn's mother. My husband, her father, Patrick, is out in the garage. I don't know if he'll be joining us, but please, do come in."  
  
Mrs. O'Hare escorted them into a cozy, if somewhat cluttered, living room and bade them sit down. Steve wanted to hold on to Maggie's hand for strength but satisfied himself with simply sitting beside her on the couch, so close their hips touched. He couldn't bring himself to sit in Elizabeth O'Hare's, home holding Maggie's hand, while claming to have loved her daughter, and knowing that he had been the one to end her life.  
  
The three of them sat for several minutes in agonizing silence, and then both Steve and Elizabeth spoke at once.  
  
"So…"  
  
"Well…"  
  
"Oh, excuse me," Elizabeth said. "You first."  
  
After fully another minute of silence, Steve finally spoke.  
  
"Maggie says she told you who I am."  
  
Elizabeth nodded, "Yes. You're the policeman who killed my daughter. I understand you were also dating her just before."  
  
Steve nodded mutely. Her matter of fact tone put everything off kilter. He had prepared himself to be hated, reviled, and possibly even threatened, but he wasn't sure how to deal with…nothing. Finally, he had another thought.  
  
"Why are you willing to see me?"  
  
It was Elizabeth's turn to be silent. The conversation was obviously difficult for her. Steve didn't know what kind of answer he expected, but he was nonetheless surprised by what he got.  
  
"Patrick and I hadn't heard from Lynn in three years. You were the last person to see her alive, Detective Sloan." She held up her hand as if to forestall any protests, though none were forthcoming. "I read the report. I know you were blind at the time, from an injury, but you were *there*. If you had lost a child to violence, wouldn't you want to talk to the person who was with her in her last moments?"  
  
"I suppose I might," Steve admitted.  
  
Elizabeth looked at him, her hard gray eyes magnified by her glasses. Steve could tell from that look that she didn't *wish* to hurt him, but she didn't wish to spare him either. She simply didn't care one way or another about how he felt. Her need to know about her daughter's end was too great to allow her to care about anyone else's feelings. Steve's heart twisted as he realized what he had to do, but he did it anyway.  
  
"What do you want to know, Mrs. O'Hare?"  
  
"Tell me what happened that night."  
  
Steve's heart sank. He wasn't sure how he would get through this, but he would do his best to tell the woman what she had asked to hear.  
  
"I was home from the hospital. I still couldn't see, but it was good to be home; and my dad was a great help. He was supposed to be receiving a well- deserved award that night, but he was worried about me. I finally talked him in to going to the banquet. He'd worked hard, not to win some trophy, but to care for his patients, and that's why he deserved the honor so much, because he hadn't been trying to get it. He'd just been doing his job. Besides, he was hovering, had been ever since I'd been injured, and my nerves were just about shot. I told him to go enjoy the banquet, promised him that I'd be all right. He invited me to come with him, but I said what I really needed was a quiet night at home, alone."  
  
'So far, so good,' Steve thought, but he knew the next part of the story would be harder to tell. Unconsciously, he reached for Maggie's hand now, forgetting that he had decided not to do that out of respect for Mrs. O'Hare.  
  
"I knew Dad had left some lights on, and I got up to turn them off before going to bed. What's a blind man need with lights, anyway? At some point, I bumped into something--a nightstand or a chair, I don't know. I can't even remember now…" he paused to draw a fortifying breath and stuff his roiling emotions down inside himself, and noticed Mrs. O'Hare watching with fascination and horror as he told the tale, "…when or how…I realized she was there. Maybe I smelled her perfume or heard her breathing. When I noticed her, she was so close it was frightening. Maybe I felt her body heat, I don't know. Anyway, she was there, and she had a gun. She took me to my bedroom, in my apartment on the lower floor of my dad's beach house."  
  
Steve blinked back tears and bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He'd never told anyone what had happened. He'd given his statement, yes, but that was just the bare facts, just what they needed to rule it a 'good' shooting, and he'd told Maggie bits and pieces about that night, but he'd never really told the whole story before, because he knew if he did, he would fall apart. Now, he could not allow himself the luxury of an emotional cave in. This woman, Lynn's mother, he reminded himself, deserved to know the whole, unvarnished, unedited truth, and he was determined to give it to her.  
  
"Lynn tried to kiss me then, but I turned away." He let the tears go then, unable to hold them back any longer. "I don't recall who said what, when, but I told Lynn I would have stopped the men who hurt her, that I'd get her help if she'd give me the gun. She told me I was special, 'not like the others,' were her exact words, and that she hadn't decided to kill me until she realized I knew what she was doing, that she might have let me live if I hadn't found out."  
  
Steve paused for a moment to collect himself. He wasn't finished with his story yet, and if he fell apart now, he'd never get through. He had to finish this for Mrs. O'Hare. For some reason, he felt he owed her that much. A deep, shuddering breath stilled his nerves, and he continued.  
  
"I can't remember exactly what Lynn said next, I probably never will, but I know it was her intention for us to make love. Then she planned to kill me, and then herself. She explained that I had to die because I had figured out what she was doing, and she didn't want to go to jail. She had to die because she'd finally been caught, and couldn't continue…killing. She knew my dad would come home later and find us there, together. He'd know what it meant, and wrap the case up for the police."  
  
Steve closed his eyes, remembering.  
  
"She pushed me down on the bed, then, and kissed me again. This time, I reciprocated, and when she…got into…what we were doing, I shoved her away with all my strength. I heard her hit the floor, or maybe it was the wall, hard, and I ran away from her. The house was dark, I guess, because I had turned off most of the lights; and I have lived there since I was a kid, so I knew my way even in the dark. As I came upstairs, I thought to head out to the balcony, and down to the beach. From there, I'd try to get to the neighbors for help, but I tripped over something. When I fell, there were things on the floor under my hands, my wallet, my badge, I don't know what else, but my gun was there. I heard her come to the top of the stairs, and I rolled over and shouted something, trying to get her to stop, but she didn't, so I shot. It was the only thing I could do!"  
  
Maggie's hand still clasped in his own, Steve had brought both his hands up to his chest now, where he clutched them together, over his heart as if trying to ease the pain. He hung his head and rocked back and forth struggling to quell the tide of grief and guilt inside him.  
  
"I didn't want to kill her," he gasped out, "I loved her, but it was her or me."  
  
"If you loved her so much," a hard, angry voice said, "why did you decide it had to be her?"  
  
Horrified, Steve looked up and across the room to see a wizened old man with iron-gray hair and a bristly moustache, watching him with green eyes glittering with hate.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Pat!" Mrs. O'Hare was appalled.  
  
"Oh, screw it, Betsy. No answer he gave would ever be good enough, anyhow."  
  
The old man walked off. Mrs. O'Hare patted Steve on the knee, placed a box of tissues in front of him on the coffee table, and followed her husband. With her free hand, Maggie pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to Steve to blow his nose. When he released her other hand, she slipped her arm around his shoulders and gave him a comforting squeeze. He rested his head on her shoulder, and closed his eyes, exhausted. She placed a soft kiss on the crown of his head and pulled him closer.  
  
"Just say the word, Steve, and nos vamos…we will leave. We can show ourselves out."  
  
Steve considered her suggestion a moment, then said, "No. Let's wait for Mrs. O'Hare. See if she has any more questions. Maybe she'll be willing to answer some of mine."  
  
"Ok." Maggie continued to hold him and rock him gently.  
  
  
  
  
  
By the time Mrs. O'Hare returned with a tray loaded with coffee and teacakes, Steve had regained his composure.  
  
"You'll have to forgive my husband," she said. "Lynn was much more his daughter than she was mine, undeniably a daddy's girl. Losing her absolutely destroyed him. I doubt he'll ever be the same again…" She fell silent, suddenly realizing what she was saying, and to whom.  
  
She sat on the chair across from Steve and Maggie again and filled their cups, then settled back, sipping her own coffee. The silence was no less awkward than it had been before Steve told her about Lynn's death, but at least the story was no longer hovering over them like a dark cloud.  
  
"So…"  
  
"Well…"  
  
They laughed nervously as they both started to speak at the same time again. Steve smiled slightly, and said, "You first, this time."  
  
As Steve had done earlier, Mrs. O'Hare was silent a while longer, putting her thoughts in order before she spoke.  
  
"You say you loved her," she said, staring into her coffee cup.  
  
"Yes, ma'am."  
  
"Then how could you not know…" Elizabeth's voice was desolate, pleading.  
  
After a bit, Steve explained, "My feelings for Lynn developed very quickly, much faster than my understanding of her. I didn't even realize until recently how much I had cared for her." Steve saw the woman's eyes flicker over to Maggie before coming up to meet his gaze. Not knowing what more to say, he remained silent.  
  
In the next moment, Mrs. O'Hare gave his thoughts voice when she said, "Her memory has…come between you."  
  
Steve sat silently for a long time. Mrs. O'Hare had been very kind in agreeing to see him, and he had hoped to spare her as much pain as possible, but she had insisted that he tell her the horrible details of her daughter's death. Now, it seemed, she wanted to make him admit that he was willing to put what had happened behind him and go on. He remained quiet, hoping if he didn't respond, she would go on talking about something else. Eventually, though, he realized she was determined to wait for his answer.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," he whispered.  
  
"Don't let it," she told him. 


	16. The Darkness Won

Steve watched in shock as Mrs. O'Hare got up from her chair and went to a shelf to retrieve a photo album. He wasn't certain, but he thought she had just told him to let go of his grief over her daughter and get on with his life.  
  
Coming over to sit beside Maggie on the couch, she opened the photo album. The first picture was of a precious, blue-eyed, brown-haired baby, toothlessly grinning at the camera.  
  
Mrs. O'Hare said, "Even before…well, you know what they did to her…Lynn was a lot of things."  
  
She turned the page, and there was the same tot. This time, she appeared to be screaming and throwing a block at the photographer. "She was a moody child," her mother explained, "going from bright and happy to selfish and vindictive to downright mean at the drop of a hat."  
  
The next page showed snapshots of Lynn, a little older now, with other children. In some shots, she was playing nicely, in others, she was throwing things or yelling or kicking, and in one shot, she had her hand behind another child's head, giving the girl 'antennae'.  
  
"I don't know why she was like that," Elizabeth continued, flipping through the album, "but she was a difficult child. Sometimes she could be so kind and loving, but no sooner did you turn around and she was cruel and wicked. No matter how much Pat and I loved her, no matter what we did for her, it never seemed enough."  
  
There was a picture of Lynn and her dad, playing basketball in front of the garage.  
  
"She was always closer to her father," Elizabeth said. "He taught her to play ball."  
  
She turned to an 8" x 10" glossy of the shot Steve had seen in the article he'd read at the library. The article itself was in a plastic sleeve on the facing page.  
  
"Deep inside, I think she really wanted to be a good person, Detective Sloan, but there was something else inside her, fighting that. I suppose you heard what she did to Coach Murdock?"  
  
Steve nodded.  
  
"Lynn loved that woman. She even snuck into the personnel files in the school office to find out her birthday and got the team to throw her a surprise party, but then the coach made her mad, and, well, you know what Lynn did."  
  
Maggie put a hand on Mrs. O'Hare's arm. "Did you ever seek…professional…help for her?"  
  
"Yes," Mrs. O'Hare said. "We talked to the guidance counselor, sent her to the school psychologist, found a child psychiatrist in Sacramento. They all told us she was just a normal, healthy child who needed to learn to control her anger. Until the incident with her coach, she'd never done anything too terrible, so we believed them."  
  
Mrs. O'Hare turned to face Steve.  
  
"Detective, for a long time, Lynn tried to be good. She fought…the darkness…inside her for years. She *really did* try, but after those policemen assaulted her, I think the darkness won."  
  
"Mrs. O'Hare…"  
  
"Please," she said, reaching across Maggie's lap to put a hand on his arm, "let me finish. You seem like a good man, a kind man, and I think you're probably the only man Lynn ever…cared…about after they…hurt her. I don't think she knew how to love anymore." For the first time, Mrs. O'Hare was moved to tears. "I think my baby meant it when she said you were special. I think you may have helped her find the light inside herself again, and I will choose to believe that, in her troubled mind, she wouldn't really have been killing you, but just taking you with her, to keep her safe from the darkness and to keep the light from ever going out again."  
  
"Mrs. O'Hare, please…" Steve choked on his words, and she cut him off again.  
  
"No! *Please*," she begged. "Let me maintain my illusions. If you know differently, I don't want to hear it. I don't blame you for what you did. Isn't that enough, that I agree you had no choice? Let me believe there was still something *decent* in my child. Don't *tell* me my baby was a monster."  
  
Steve closed his hand over the age-spotted one that was still clutching his arm.  
  
"Mrs. O'Hare," he said kindly, "I think you are wrong about Lynn. I think she still knew how to love."  
  
He gave the old woman a gentle smile, and she smiled back at him through her tears. 


	17. Meet the Folks--Dad

As he and Maggie stepped out of the O'Hare's house, Steve said, "Thank you again, Mrs. O'Hare, for being so kind to me. I know it was difficult for you."  
  
"Thank you, Detective," Elizabeth O'Hare said, "for telling me the truth about…the end. A part of me wishes she had called out for me," the woman was on the verge of tears again, "but I suppose it's better that she didn't. I don't know how I would feel knowing she needed me and I couldn't be there."  
  
"Mrs. O'Hare," Steve tried to reassure her, "I'm sure she knew a piece of your heart was *always* with her."  
  
"Thank you, Detective, it's good of you to say that." She shut the door then, and left Steve and Maggie standing on the porch.  
  
As they headed down the sidewalk toward the Mustang, Steve heard the distinctive thwap, thwap of a basketball hitting pavement. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Mr. O'Hare in front of the garage, shooting free throws.  
  
"Maggie, wait for me in the car, ok?"  
  
"Querido…"  
  
"Está bien, Mags. It'll be ok. If he tells me to go to hell, I'll just come back to the car and we can go, but I've got to try to talk to him."  
  
"Ok. Te esperaré. I'll wait for you."  
  
"Mr. O'Hare…"  
  
O'Hare threw a high hard pass at Steve, and Steve caught the ball at about chest level.  
  
"Don't bother to tell me you're sorry," the old man told him.  
  
"I am, sir, but I know it's not enough."  
  
"Got that right."  
  
Steve bounced the ball a couple times, and passed it back to the old man, and turned to leave.  
  
He'd only moved a step or two when O'Hare asked him, "You ever shoot hoops?"  
  
"Pickup games at the park and around the neighborhood," Steve said, "but football was more my game."  
  
O'Hare grunted. "You look the type, tall enough for basketball, but too damned heavy and slow. Well, I'm getting too old for one-on-one, but I'll bet you played HORSE."  
  
"Sometimes, with my sister." Steve tried a small joke then, "But she could spell better than me, so I usually lost."  
  
O'Hare snorted with laughter, made a perfect shot from the free throw line, caught the rebound, and passed the ball to Steve.  
  
Steve stepped up to the line, bounced the ball a couple times, and lined up his shot.  
  
"I knew what my daughter was doing," O'Hare said as Steve released the ball.  
  
Steve's shot slammed into the garage wall a good foot above the backboard.  
  
"That's an H," O'Hare said. He moved to the top of the three-point circle and downed another perfect shot.  
  
"How'd you know," Steve asked as he got the rebound for himself this time and took O'Hare's place on the circle.  
  
"I read the papers, news from around the state. Even when she changed her name, I recognized her writing style. Seems there was always a cop murdered--actually four--near where she was working. I didn't have any proof, though, and I sure as hell wasn't going to go looking for any."  
  
Steve's shot fell short, not because O'Hare had surprised him this time, but because he had simply misjudged the force it would take to get the ball into the basket. "That's an O," he told the old man.  
  
"I thought you couldn't spell," O'Hare said dryly.  
  
"I learned," Steve told him.  
  
O'Hare went to the corner of the court by the garage door, near what would have been the baseline if it had been painted on the blacktop, and sank a basket that was nothing but net.  
  
Steve caught the rebound again, and said, "Mind if I go from the other corner? I'm a leftie."  
  
O'Hare shrugged. "Suit yourself."  
  
Steve dribbled the ball ahead of him until he got to the corner where he stopped and eyed the basket, determined to make the shot this time.  
  
"She called me from LA and told me about you."  
  
Steve sighed as the ball sailed over the basket and landed in the rhododendrons in front of the porch.  
  
"I've got it," O'Hare said. "That's an R."  
  
"She told you about me?" He was stunned, and suddenly realized O'Hare was using surprise to win this game.  
  
"Yep. And about the house you shared with your dad, the ocean view, and your fireplace." O'Hare said as he went to the middle of the edge of the driveway. It would have been about half court in any gym. "She was already planning to break it off, said you were getting too close." He took his time lining up his shot, as it was a much greater distance this time, and finally sent it through the net with a swish.  
  
Steve caught the ball, and dribbled over to where O'Hare had been standing. He knew there was no way he'd make this shot, but he'd try, nonetheless.  
  
"I would have killed you myself then. I thought she meant you were trying to force her into…something."  
  
Steve's shot banged off the back of the rim with an unpleasant sound, and came hurtling right back at him. He'd been surprised by what O'Hare had said again, and barely caught the ball before it smashed him in the face.  
  
"That's S," O'Hare said, taking the ball from his hands and moving to the far corner of the court.  
  
He sank one more perfect shot, and stepped aside to let Steve have a go.  
  
As Steve lined up his shot, O'Hare said, "She told me I was wrong."  
  
Steve held on to the ball, waiting for him to finish. When he seemed to have nothing left to say, Steve took his shot.  
  
"She said she just wasn't ready to love someone yet."  
  
The ball struck the garage at an angle, ricocheted to hit the mailbox with a 'bonggg', bounced into a tree, and rolled into the street. Steve's gasp of surprise turned into a groan of frustration as the old man trotted after the ball, saying, "That's an E."  
  
Steve looked over at O'Hare, realizing how much he was like his own father, and said, "That's why I played football."  
  
O'Hare walked back to the driveway, dribbling the ball, and Steve made a halfhearted attempt to guard him. To his surprise, O'Hare dodged around him, glided to the basket, and executed a perfect lay-up. Steve gaped after him and said, "Mrs. O'Hare said you hadn't heard from Lynn in three years."  
  
"She didn't, but I did." He tossed the ball to Steve, who dribbled to the back of the court, and then came slowly forward.  
  
O'Hare stole the ball from him, moved off to his right, turned and made a beautiful jump shot. "Lynn just couldn't talk to her mom anymore. Elizabeth got too protective, and when Lynn tried to tell her to back off, she'd get weepy. I didn't know how to tell Betsy that he only child couldn't bear speaking to her, so I just didn't."  
  
It was O'Hare's ball, and Steve was determined to steal it, but the old man kept pivoting, keeping his back to him. Finally, the man got an open shot, and made a three-pointer with no effort. Now, he was huffing and puffing from the exertion, so he just tossed the ball to Steve and let him wander around the court, shooting at will.  
  
Even without being guarded, Steve scored on only two of his three shots, and O'Hare said, "You ain't lying when you say that's why you played football."  
  
"No, sir. What else did Lynn tell you?"  
  
O'Hare caught the ball as Steve passed it to him and said, "Nothing." He dribbled up to the free throw line, and stood there, bouncing the ball listlessly. "But I know my daughter, and she did love you, Detective. The last time I talked to her, she sounded like her old self, like she was before the rape, and she loved you. Hearing her sound that happy, one last time, was a great gift to me, Detective, and I thank you for it. The old Lynn wouldn't want you to blame yourself. She would understand why you had to…do what you did, and I do, too. She would also want you to go on afterward."  
  
The two men stood there in silence for some moments, the only sound between them being the steady thwap, thwap, thwap of the basketball hitting the pavement. Then O'Hare sniffed deeply, cleared his throat, and spat on the pavement near Steve's feet. Steve backed up a step. Without ever looking at Steve, O'Hare told him, "I'd say, 'no offense,' but I really don't give a damn if you get offended. I want you to go the hell away now, and never come back."  
  
"Yes, sir, and thank you, sir." O'Hare ignored him, so Steve turned to go. As he walked away, Steve heard the ball go through the hoop with a perfect swish. 


	18. Stormy night

This time, Steve didn't have to come creeping into Maggie's room under cover of darkness to find comfort and companionship. Tonight, she was there waiting for him when he came out of the bathroom, sitting up in his bed. A storm was raging outside, and in the strobe of the lightning, she reached out to him, and he took her hands. She pulled him down to her and gathered as much of him as she could hold in her arms. He slid down in the bed, wrapped his arms around her waist, buried his face in her lap, and wept as she threaded her long fingers through his hair again and again.  
  
After a while, Maggie lay down beside him. He snuggled back against her, and she wrapped her arms about him as she had done the two previous nights. He pulled her arms tightly around him, seeking a stronger embrace, and felt her soft breath stir his hair as she whispered to him lovingly in Spanish, trying to soothe him. He could not hear her words over the boom of the thunder, but the rise and flow of her murmur calmed him. Slowly, his sobbing ebbed away, he sighed once, and drifted off into dreamless sleep. 


	19. Letting Go

"Come with me," Steve asked nervously.  
  
"I will join you in a few minutes," Maggie promised. "You need some time alone with her."  
  
Steve nodded, and, taking the flowers Maggie handed him, he nervously headed into the cemetery. The sky was still overcast this chilly early morning, and the clouds didn't show any sign of breaking in time for the sun to warm him. The dreary dawn matched his mood. This was going to be hard, really hard.  
  
Last night's storm had blown debris and grass clippings against the headstone, and he bent down to clear away the mess. When he was finished, his fingers sketched over the carvings for a while, two delicately wrought angels, her name, the words 'Beloved daughter,' the date of her birth, and the date of…the date he had killed her. He lingered over the last date, a tangible link to that terrible day, and he felt a knot of sorrow form in his gut.  
  
As the knot rose, it forced tears to his eyes and put pressure on his chest making it hard to breathe. When he spoke, his voice was a tight whisper.  
  
"I'm sorry, Lynn. I wish it could have been different."  
  
He traced her name several times, and smiled as a crack of sunlight broke free and gilded his hand and the letters his fingers were outlining. The tears didn't stop falling, but he breathed easier, and, as he had hoped, he found it easier to talk to her than he had just four days ago.  
  
"I think I'll always love you, Lynn. Since I've been here, I think I've gotten to know you. I've met a friend of yours, your English teacher, and your coach, and I read some articles about you in the local paper. I even met your mom and dad. They're good people."  
  
He crouched down and combed his fingers lightly through the neatly trimmed grass over the grave.  
  
"Everyone I've talked to has told me something different about you. I gather that you were a complicated, talented lady, but I already knew that. I wish I had known you then, before…before you got hurt. Don't get me wrong, Lynn, I liked you just fine, but there was always something about you a little…I don't know. Angry? Defensive? Anyway, I didn't figure out what it was until it was too late."  
  
His knees were complaining, so he laid the flowers on the grave and stood up.  
  
"Your dad told me you would have said I shouldn't blame myself. My dad and my friends kept telling me that, too, until I had bottled it up enough that they thought I was over it. Until they thought I was over you, I guess. But it's hard, Lynn, when you feel that…close to someone."  
  
His voice broke, and he scrubbed away his tears with the heels of his hands.  
  
"When you feel that *much* for someone, it's hard not to blame yourself when they're in trouble, when they need you, and you just don't see it."  
  
He stood quietly for a moment, thinking, sniffling.  
  
"Your dad also said you…at least the person you were before the attack…would want me to go on. I've been *trying* to go on, Lynn, but I guess I just wanted to convince myself that what *you* would want didn't really matter to me. I needed to show everyone that after what you had done to me, I didn't give a damn about you anymore."  
  
Again, he paused for thought. His tears were drying up now. He was all cried out.  
  
"It was a lie, Lynn," he said, bereft. "I *did* give a damn. Still do, always will. After talking to your father, I have to believe that you didn't deceive me completely. I have to believe that you, or at least some part of you that wasn't twisted and ruined by what had happened, really cared about me, too, and does want me to go on. I have to believe that the part of you that still remembered how to love would want me to let you go."  
  
He turned and looked over his shoulder, squinting as the sunshine squeezed through a break in the clouds, and spotted Maggie standing beside a nearby tree. He waved her over.  
  
"You ok," she asked, coming to stand beside him.  
  
"Yeah," he replied, staring at the slightly rounded mound of grass-covered earth in front of him.  
  
She looked at the grave, too. It seemed right to do that now.  
  
They stood together in silence for a while, not touching, but with not enough space for a breeze to blow between them, and watched last night's leftover raindrops sparkle like diamonds in the grass. Their shadows stretched out across the grave before them, made impossibly long and thin by the just-awakening sun.  
  
Steve spoke softly, his voice, hardly a whisper, almost lost in the slight breeze. Maggie strained to hear him.  
  
"I think I am ready to go on, Mags."  
  
"I am happy for you, gringo."  
  
"But I'm not sure I'm ready to go on with you, yet. I'm sorry."  
  
"Está bien, gringo."  
  
"No, Maggie, it's not all right. You've done so much to help me these past few days. It's just not fair to leave you hanging after all this."  
  
"Steve, we will go on together when you are ready. Until then, we can just be friends."  
  
Steve felt shaky inside. All this time, unable to face her, he hadn't looked up from the grave. He didn't want to lose Maggie, but he wasn't sure he could ever give her what she was looking for. He wasn't sure of a lot of things right now. He just felt empty.  
  
"What if I'm never ready?"  
  
Maggie heard the fear in his voice. She took hold of his arm and lifted it up to drape around her shoulders. Then she moved closer and wrapped her arm around his waist. She reached up with her other hand and brushed a stray hair from his face, then she gave him a squeeze about the waist.  
  
"Then we will always be amigos…friends for life."  
  
As she kept her arm around him, she felt the tension ease from his body.  
  
"Aw, Mags, you're the best," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. With his arm still around her shoulders and hers still around his waist, he turned her around, and, squinting into the sun that had finally broken free of its gray prison, they began to leave.  
  
After just two steps, Steve stopped them.  
  
"Stay here," he told Maggie.  
  
He went back to the grave and crouched down again. After tracing the angels, the name, the words, and the dates one last time, he put his hand flat on the mound that covered her.  
  
"Good bye."  
  
He remained just a second more, then stood up, and returned to Maggie. He draped his arm about her shoulders again, and took her arm and wrapped it about his waist, and, sharing that friendly embrace, they walked off together into a golden California morning. 


End file.
